“You little rat,” he hissed.
Lucía rose so suddenly the chain at her waist clinked. “Say one more word to my son.”
Everyone in the room stopped.
For six years, Lucía had been treated as a convicted woman, a file number, a headline, a cautionary story. But in that instant, she was only a mother. And even with cuffs on her hands, Oscar stepped back.
The guards removed him.
Camila stayed on the phone, crying and giving instructions. “The wardrobe in the main bedroom. The old one, dark wood, heavy doors. There’s a bottom drawer. Pull it all the way out. There should be a panel underneath. Look for a keyhole or a latch.”
The clock read 5:27 p.m.
Thirty-three minutes.
The prison attorney kept another phone pressed to his ear. “We need an emergency stay. New eyewitness statement and possible physical evidence. Yes, I know the timing. I know exactly what time it is.”
