She is an 8-year-old girl.
I haven’t seen her in 3 years.
That’s all I ask.
The request reached the prison director, a 60-year-old man named Colonel Méndez, who had seen hundreds of convicts pass through that corridor.
Something in Ramiro’s file had always bothered him.
The evidence was solid: fingerprints on the weapon, stained clothing, and a witness who saw him leaving the house that night.
But Ramiro’s eyes were not the eyes of a guilty man.
Méndez had learned to recognize that look in 30 years of his career.
“Bring the girl here,” he ordered.
Three hours later, a white van parked in front of the prison.
A social worker came down from it, holding the hand of a blonde girl with big eyes and a serious expression.
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