At my daughter’s funeral, my son-in-law announced without a trace of shame, “I’m sending the girls into foster care. I deserve a new life.” He had no idea that my three granddaughters had secretly saved the notebook, the recordings, and the truth that would ruin the perfect wedding day he was already planning.

Officer Martínez, a middle‑aged man with a tired face, listened as I told him everything. He took the notebook, the USB, the phone, his eyes narrowing as he examined the evidence.

“We’ll open a case. We’ll need to bring them in for statements.”

He looked at me, his gaze softening.

“Do you want us to place them in protective custody?”

I thought of Arturo’s cold smile, of the van waiting outside the cemetery. I thought of the three girls huddled in the kitchen, of their small hands clutching at my coat.

“No. Keep them with me. I’ll take care of them.”

He nodded, the weight of the decision settling on his shoulders.

When we returned home, the house felt different. The walls seemed to close in, the shadows longer. I set the notebook on the table, the pages open to the entry where Rosa warned about Arturo.