The doctor looked at him seriously.
—You didn’t remember him because he wasn’t part of this investigation at the beginning.
But his medical record from nine years ago, when he was treated in Houston for the prostate tumor, indicates that before the surgical procedure a sample was kept as a matter of protocol, at the request of his wife.
The name of his wife, although it was proposed, entered the room as a presence.
Ricardo was left speechless.
Dead eight years ago.
The last person who had looked at him with the kind of tenderness that didn’t ask for explanations.
—I used that —he said, with a hollow voice.
“It wasn’t necessary to use it,” the doctor replied. “It simply existed. And it served as a point of comparison.”
It could be a picture of a baby.
