She simply looked at her father—really looked at him—as if weighing whether he was strong enough to hear what she had come to say.
Then she nodded.
“Yes,” she whispered. “It’s true.”
Ramiro’s breath hitched. His fingers tightened around the edge of the table, the metal cuffs clinking softly in the silence.
“Who told you?” he asked, his voice barely holding together.
Salomé glanced over her shoulder.
For the first time, the social worker wasn’t looking at her phone.
She was watching.
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