Three hours later, a white van pulled up in front of the prison.
Salomé Fuentes got out, holding the hand of a social worker. Eight years old. Blond hair. Large, serious eyes.
She wasn’t crying. She wasn’t asking any questions.
She walked down the corridor of the cellblock as if fear had no place in her life. The inmates fell silent as she passed. There was something about her that commanded respect.
When she arrived, Ramiro was already handcuffed to the table in the visiting room.
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