It was certainty.
“What exactly did you tell your mother?” Méndez asked.
Salomé glanced at Ramira first, as if asking permission, and her mother nodded immediately, gripping the edge of the table with trembling hands.
The girl took a slow breath.
“The man who died that night… he wasn’t alone in the house,” she said softly.
The words landed in the room like a stone dropped into still water.
Ramira closed her eyes for a moment as if reliving the night that had destroyed her life.
“I told them that,” she whispered. “But no one listened to me.”
Méndez stood up slowly, his mind already revisiting the trial file that had seemed so complete.
There had been a witness who claimed to see Ramira leaving the house.
Fingerprints on the knife.
Blood on her clothes.
All the pieces had fit too perfectly.
Maybe too perfectly.
“Who else was there?” Méndez asked the girl carefully.
