The chapel doors opened.
Two ministerial agents entered with a prosecutor from Querétaro, Dr. Ana Lucía Méndez, and a forensic expert carrying a laptop.
My mother went pale.
Notary Salcedo stood as if he might leave, but an officer moved beside his row.
“This is disrespectful,” Teresa said loudly. “We are at a funeral.”
The prosecutor answered calmly.
“We are at a location connected to an investigation involving homicide, document forgery, coercion, and concealment of a minor’s identity.”
The word minor landed heavily in the chapel.
Rodrigo stared at me.
“Minor?”
I walked toward him slowly.
“My son is alive.”
I will never forget his face.
It was not relief.
It was terror.
And that terror said more than any confession.
My mother opened her mouth, but no words came out.
The prosecutor connected Camila’s recovered phone to the chapel screen. The image was shaky, but clear enough. Camila’s labored breathing filled the room.
