The father isn’t dead, he’s under the floorboards, the girl said. The police began to excavate. Police Chief Luis Ramos looked up at the newly submitted report. Reporter’s name: Marta Gómez. Contents: husband missing, no clues, no additional notes. But what caught his attention was that the person filing the report wasn’t Marta, but a neighbor, Mrs. Francisca Díaz, accompanied by a 4-year-old girl clutching a teddy bear, her face completely pale.
“She didn’t want me to take the girl anywhere,” Doña Francisca said in a hurried voice. But the girl said something very strange. You all have to listen to her. Luis sat down. His gaze softened as he turned to Victoria. “What’s your name?” “My name is Victoria,” the girl replied in a voice barely audible above a whisper. “Do you know where your father went?” he asked gently. Victoria didn’t answer immediately. She looked up, her large dark eyes trembling, and then said slowly, “Dad, he’s under the kitchen floor.”
The atmosphere in the room froze. Luis looked at Francisca. Her face was ashen. A young officer nearby also cleared his throat, trying to hide a shiver. “What did you say?” Luis leaned over. His voice was no longer so gentle, but cautious. “Dad is under the kitchen floor,” Victoria repeated, “in the place where the tiles are the lightest. Dad is cold.” A strange, heavy silence fell over the room. Luis signaled his lieutenant, Ricardo Muñoz, to come closer.
“Call Marta Gómez at the police station. Put together a preliminary investigation team. I want to review the scene within the hour.” Less than 30 minutes later, Marta arrived, more serene and composed than Luis expected. She was wearing a white shirt, black pants, her hair tied back, and her expression showed neither alarm nor pain. “I already told you so,” Marta said in a calm voice. “My husband Julián has a habit of leaving for days without warning. This isn’t the first time. Did you notice anything strange?” Luis asked, without taking his eyes off Marta for even a second.
“No,” she replied, shrugging. “I thought he’d come back like always.” Ricardo intervened, but the neighbors said they heard screaming and things breaking that night. Marta glanced at Ricardo, then sighed. “We had arguments, but who doesn’t argue in a marriage?” Luis nodded and recently refinished the kitchen floor. Marta hesitated for a moment. “I changed it because there was mold. I did it myself. You laid the tiles yourself,” Luis asked, surprised. “Yes,” Marta replied quickly. “I watched how-to videos.”
Ricardo took out a USB flash drive. Her neighbor, Mr. Ernesto Morales, has a security camera. He provided us with a video showing her leaving the house with Victoria around 3:00 a.m. and returning alone with a bag of construction materials. How does she explain that? Marta pursed her lips. She didn’t want Victoria to breathe the smell of Molevé at a friend’s house to sleep and take the materials. I wanted to fix the house myself. Luis raised an eyebrow without purchase receipts, without hiring workers, without a remodeling notice.
And the girl says her father is under the floor. What a coincidence. Marta clenched her fists. Her voice rose. They’re saying I killed my husband. Luis responded calmly. We didn’t say that, we’re just asking questions. And it seems their answers don’t match up. Suddenly, Marta turned to Ricardo. Do you know what it’s like to live in an unhappy marriage? Do you know that Julián beat me? Luis intervened. He has proof, medical records, complaints, reports. Marta was silent for a few seconds, then exhaled sharply.
I didn’t go to the doctor. I held on. Ricardo leaned toward Luis and whispered, “We need an urgent search warrant. There’s a smell of fresh cement in the house. And the way she talks.” Luis nodded. “Start the process. I want the forensic team there tomorrow morning.” The next morning, the police arrived at the small house at the end of San Sebastián Street. The head of the forensic team, Leticia Paredes, a cold but very experienced woman, crouched down on the new tiles and inhaled gently.
The cement still smells. It hasn’t dried completely. There’s something underneath, he said, turning to another technician. “Start drilling in the area with the color difference.” Marta was held in the room, guarded by two police officers. Victoria wasn’t there. She had been taken by Francisca to her maternal grandmother’s house on Luis’s orders. Leticia signaled, “Drill layer by layer. Let’s start at the corner with the light-colored tiles.” The sound of the drill echoed in the tense atmosphere.
Half an hour later, the first layer of tile was removed. Beneath the gray cement, a fragment of a dark cloth bag appeared. Leticia stopped a technician. “Slow down. Remove the rest by hand.” Wearing gloves, they began to carefully move the cement aside. A young officer exclaimed, “Oh my God,” as he discovered a human foot, bruised and stiff. Luis approached, remained silent for a few seconds, and then turned to Marta. “Do you have anything else to say?” Marta didn’t respond. She turned her face away.
Leticia spoke in a deep voice. The body is that of a man wrapped in a cloth bag. There are traces of dried blood on the head. He was severely beaten. Ricardo took photos of the scene, then picked up a broken object next to the body. It’s a cell phone. It’s destroyed, but we can try to recover the data. Luis narrowed his eyes. Do it immediately. Send it to the tech lab. Another officer ran out of the house, vomiting outside. Leticia shook her head without reproach. Not everyone can deal with death.
Luis approached to look at the body, his eyes open, his hands still clenched as if he’d been struggling. He turned to look at the silent house, the curtains moving in the wind. This isn’t a disappearance, it’s not an accident, it’s a premeditated murder. He turned to Ricardo. Arrest Marta Gómez. Preventive detention under Article 142, suspicion of homicide and concealment of a corpse. Ricardo approached and read her rights. Mrs. Marta Gómez, you are being held on suspicion of homicide.
He has the right to remain silent. To remain silent? Marta let out a bitter laugh. “Do you know how many years I lived in silence?” Luis responded tersely. “Now there’s no need for more silence.” The sound of handcuffs echoed dryly inside the house, soaked in cement dust. Marta didn’t resist; she just stared at the removed tiles where her husband’s body had just been removed with a blank stare, as if there was nothing left to remain for. In the vehicle on the way to the detention center, Ricardo looked in the rearview mirror and saw Marta sitting motionless like a statue.
He thought to himself that some people commit crimes on impulse, but others, like Marta, seemed to have planned a whole tragedy. Upon arriving at the police station, Luis called an urgent meeting. The forensic team, the data recovery staff, and prosecutor Rosa Marín, a perceptive woman with razor-sharp eyes, attended. Leticia Paredes was the first to speak. The victim, Julián Gómez, died of head trauma, struck hard from behind with a blunt object. There were no signs of defense.
There was no blood in the area, indicating that the body had been moved before burial. Luis nodded. The crime was clearly a planned, intentional murder. Rosa clasped her hands on the table. But for a precise accusation, we must put all the pieces together. Motive, chronology, evidence. The child, Victoria, is key, but the testimony of a minor isn’t enough. We need more. A young digital forensics officer, Esteban Herrera, stood up to present. We are recovering data from the broken phone.
Much of the memory was lost, but some messages appeared just before it shut down. It projected on the screen. A conversation between Julián and Marta appeared. Julián, Marta, I can’t go on. I’m going to file for divorce next week. Victoria. Marta, if you leave me, I’ll make you disappear. Julián, stop talking nonsense. Think about Victoria. Marta, Victoria will be fine. Without you, she and I will live better. The conference room fell silent. Rosa frowned. It was enough to confirm that she had a motive.
Luis signaled to Ricardo. The investigation team must return to Marta’s house. Look for all the ownership documents, invoices, loans, and any evidence of her financial situation. Two hours later, Ricardo returned with a box of documents. He pulled out a bundle of papers. This is the contract for the house. It’s 100% in Julián’s name. There are indications that Marta was trying to initiate a transfer, claiming her husband is missing. He pulled out another bundle. These are loan receipts from Marta to Julián, almost 60 million pesos, justified by a small investment for a personal business.
There’s no sign of reimbursement. Luis looked at Rosa. Financial motive, threats in the messages, and the crime scene. We’ve already got enough. That’s not all, Ricardo added. We discovered that Marta had frequent contact with an unknown number, a man named Salvador y Barra, through private messages on social media. Luis rapped his knuckles on the table. I want to see that man. That same afternoon, Salvador y Barra, a tall man with well-groomed hair and a dark shirt, was taken to the interrogation room.
He seemed nervous, his eyes darting around. “How did you meet Marta Gómez?” Rosa asked directly. Salvador swallowed. “We met in an investment group. We talked online, we saw each other a few times. Did he have a relationship with her?” Luis asked. Salvador hesitated. “I had feelings for her, but we didn’t do anything wrong. She always said her husband was a horrible man and that she was tired of him controlling her. She once mentioned the idea of hurting her husband,” Ricardo chimed in.
Salvador inhaled deeply. He had once said, “I wish he would disappear, but I thought it was an impulsive expression.” Rosa repeated the words. “Do you think Marta is an impulsive person?” Salvador remained silent. “No, she’s more calculating than I thought.” Meanwhile, at Doña Carmen’s house, Julián’s mother, little Victoria was drawing by the window. Carmen placed a glass of milk next to the girl. “What are you drawing, my love?” she asked sweetly. Victoria pointed at the sheet of paper.
A hummed figure lay beneath a tile floor surrounded by stacked tiles. It’s Dad. Dad is under there. Carmen clenched her hands tightly. Her voice was breaking. “Who told you that?” “I heard it,” Victoria replied, still staring at her drawing. Mom had a large frying pan. Dad said no. Mom hit him hard. Dad didn’t speak again. Carmen trembled, trying to hold her ground. “And then what happened?” Mom said, “Don’t tell anyone. If you do, our family will fall apart.”
Carmen rested her head in her hands. Tears were falling uncontrollably. In the investigation room, Rosa concluded. Marta not only committed a homicide, she also tried to cover it up by creating a false scene, simulating a remodeling project, and taking the girl out of the house to fabricate an alibi. She urged the girl to remain silent, manipulated a minor, and that makes the case even worse. Luis nodded. I will request charges of premeditated homicide, concealment of a corpse, and coercing a minor to keep quiet.
She must accept all the consequences. Ricardo added firmly. Not only for Julián, but also for Victoria, a girl who grew up surrounded by lies and crime since she was 4. Rosa looked at her watch. Prepare for the preliminary hearing. I want all the evidence perfectly organized. And don’t forget Victoria’s words; even if they aren’t official testimony, they will be the emotional backbone of the case. Luis stood up, his voice deeper. We’re not here just to seek justice for a dead man. It’s also a way to save the soul of a survivor who carries many wounds.
On the way back to Carmen’s house, Francisca asked in a low voice, “Do you think Victoria understands everything that happened?” Carmen shook her head, her eyes red. She’s just a child, but the most painful thing is when a child understands too much and no one gives them the right to say it. Francisca swallowed hard. I’ve never seen a child so quiet and yet so hurt. When Victoria said, “Daddy’s cold,” my blood ran cold. Carmen squeezed her hand.
I’m going to protect her, no matter what. That night, Luis reviewed the case file. He opened the photo of Victoria drawing with a serious expression, strangely mature for his age. “He sighed. Some kill and bury bodies,” he murmured. Others bury their own children’s childhoods. He looked out the window of the police station, where the dim nightlight spilled onto San Sebastián Street. The next day, the case would officially enter the judicial phase. The cement had already dried, but blood, blood never disappears.
The following morning, under the freezing sun on the outskirts of Salamanca, the forensic team and special police gathered in front of the house at number 17 San Sebastián Street. The house, previously silent, was now surrounded by taut yellow tape. Neighbors spied behind the curtains, and specialized vehicles lined the narrow street. Leticia Paredes, the chief forensic officer, adjusted her latex gloves, her icy gaze scanning the kitchen floor.
He signaled two officers to begin drilling into the new tiles. Part of the floor had already been checked the day before, but this time they would completely demolish the 40 cm of thick cement where Victoria had pointed. The sound of the chainsaws resounded violently. Pieces of white tile shattered. A strong, penetrating odor began to waft up from below, thickening the air. Officer Ricardo Muñoz frowned, covered his nose, and took a step back.
“It smells like decomposition,” Leticia confirmed in a calm, unfazed voice. “Stand back. Let the team in protective suits continue.” Another forensic scientist, Tomás Delgado, inserted a lever to widen the edge of the cement. In less than 10 minutes, the layer of damp earth began to appear. “Be careful,” Leticia warned. “There are signs of a buried object. You must dig with your hands.” The sound of small shovels scraping echoed in the silence. Layers of fine earth were slowly being removed. Sweat trickled down Tomás’s forehead, although the temperature inside didn’t exceed 18°C.
Suddenly, he stopped, trembling. Something touched a piece of cloth. Leticia immediately bent down and shone a flashlight on it. “Stop, carefully remove the dirt around it.” Everyone held their breath. After almost 10 minutes of painstaking work, a corner of a thick, dark, wrinkled cloth bag emerged, stained with what looked like dried blood. Ricardo instinctively drew his hand back on the weapon, even though he knew nothing living lay down there. “Take a sample of the cloth. Open the bag.” Leticia lowered her voice, but was firm.
Upon unzipping the bag, a putrid stench filled the kitchen. Tomás immediately turned around and vomited in a corner. Another police officer covered his mouth, pale as plaster. Inside the bag, a male body lay crumpled, crushed by the confined space. His head was covered in dried blood, his head caved in, unmistakable signs of a severe blunt force trauma to the back. Luis entered, freezing when he saw the corpse’s face, despite its decomposition; it was unmistakably Julián Gómez.
The girl was right. Ricardo approached, trembling, taking photographs of the scene. He struggled to concentrate, but nausea threatened to overwhelm him. Leticia pulled out a small bag next to the body. “We have another piece of evidence: a broken phone. Take it to the technical team. I want all the information recovered,” Luis ordered without taking his eyes off the body. Leticia nodded. “The body shows signs of having died at least 72 hours ago. There are no signs of restraints. The fatal wound is on the head, consistent with a sudden blow from behind.”
There’s blood pooling on the back and collar of his shirt, indicating he was attacked while standing. He then fell and was placed in the bag. Ricardo made a note. Julián was then unable to defend himself. Death was swift. Leticia added, “There are no scratches on his hands to indicate resistance. His left hand is still clenched tightly. It could be a final reaction before he lost consciousness.” One of the forensic experts, Javier Morales, quietly removed another layer of the cloth bag.
He shuddered to see that the corpse’s wrist was still wearing a digital watch. The screen was cracked, but the hands had stopped at exactly 2:42 a.m. “Victoria. That could be the time of death,” Leticia said quietly. It matches the camera video where Marta is seen taking Victoria out of the house. Luis turned to Ricardo. “Call Rosa. Tell her to open the file for the prosecution. This is clearly a homicide, there’s nothing further to discuss.”
In the detention center cell, Marta Gómez sat on an iron bed, staring through the small, barred window. When the door opened, Rosa Marí entered, holding a thick folder. “Do you have something to say?” Rosa asked bluntly. “No,” Marta replied, her voice hollow. “We examined the kitchen floor. Julián’s body was there. A dark cloth bag, blood, a bruise, the cell phone, the watch that had stopped just as you brought your daughter out.”
Nothing more to add. Marta smiled bitterly. I suppose you’re happy to have been right. Rosa leaned forward. I don’t need to be right. I need the truth. And you should think about whether you’re a murderer or a victim. Marta didn’t reply; she stood up and walked slowly around the cell without turning around. Then Julián murmured that he was leaving, that he would take Victoria. He couldn’t allow that. Rosa frowned. He’s confessing to killing her husband. Marta remained silent.
You planned every step. You pretended to take your daughter out to create a cover, brought materials, and redid the floor that same night. It wasn’t an outburst, it was premeditated murder. He drove me crazy, Marta whispered. I felt like a shadow. If I didn’t act, he would disappear. Rosa coldly. She could have gotten a divorce, she could have reported him, but she chose to kill and bury the body in the kitchen where her daughter plays every morning. Marta clenched her fists and said through her teeth, “I don’t regret it.”
In the computer lab, specialist Esteban Herrera sat in front of his computer, staring at the screen. He had just recovered a video from the damaged cell phone. It was only 38 seconds long, but it was crucial evidence. Luis and Ricardo were behind him. A nighttime recording appeared on the screen, apparently from an indoor camera placed in a corner of the kitchen. In the video, Julián stood in front of Marta, holding a small suitcase.
Marta, I’m leaving. The lawyer will contact you in the morning. Victoria, he said clearly. You’re not going anywhere, Marta replied in a low voice. I don’t want Victoria to see this. Don’t make it worse. Julián turned around. Marta grabbed an object that looked like an iron skillet and lunged from behind. The video stopped at that instant. Esteban murmured in a trembling voice. That’s it. There’s no more. Luis clenched his fists. We have all the evidence.
Now to wait for the trial. That night, Carmen hugged Victoria. The girl had fallen asleep after a nightmare, her hair soaked with cold sweat. Carmen whispered, “Your father will recover his voice through justice, and you—you will be able to live like a child, not as a witness to a crime.” Outside, small but cold drops began to rain. Beneath the newly raised floor, the kitchen was empty, but the memories of death remained imprinted on every tile, in every crack in the cement, like the last breath of a betrayed man.
The preliminary hearing took place in the courtroom of the Salamanca Regional Court. Inside, the atmosphere was so dense it was suffocating. Marta Gómez was escorted in her gray prison uniform, her hair no longer as neat as it had been at the beginning, her eyes still steady, but with visible signs of tension and exhaustion. On the opposite side stood prosecutor Rosa Marín, her face as sharp as ever. Beside her were Inspector Luis Ramos and Investigator Ricardo Muñoz. In the audience seats, Doña Carmen, Julián’s mother, sat silently, her hand firmly clasped with that of her granddaughter Victoria, who sat quietly beside her.
Rosa spoke in a calm voice. “Mrs. Marta, today we ask you to tell the whole truth. This is your last chance to explain your actions. Otherwise, the evidence is sufficient to file a charge of first-degree murder.” Marta smiled contemptuously. “Honestly, since when does someone in handcuffs have the privilege of telling their version?” Luis responded coldly from the moment he laid his hand on an iron skillet and took her husband’s life, from the moment he turned their kitchen into the grave of the man their daughter called “Daddy.”
Marta glanced at Carmen and Victoria. She hesitated briefly, but quickly returned to her serene demeanor. Julián wasn’t a saint, as they think he was. Ricardo raised his eyebrows. “Explain yourself.” Marta moistened her lips and began to speak in a clear, emotionless voice. “When we were married, Julián was kind, tender, but then he changed. He controlled me. He questioned every message, every person he spoke to. I quit my job at the perfumery because he said I dressed too flashy. I distanced myself from my friends because he said they were bad influences.”
Luis intervened. “Do you have any medical reports? Any evidence of physical or psychological abuse?” “No,” Marta responded immediately. “I never thought of reporting the person sleeping next to me. I thought I could handle it for Victoria.” Rosa raised a hand. “But according to the file of the psychologist who treated Julián, Dr. Fernando Soria, you were the one exhibiting controlling behaviors. He wrote, “Julián shows signs of stress from living with an impulsive, manipulative wife prone to depressive and conflictual episodes.” He made that up, Marta muttered.
And the messages with her former best friend Laura Méndez. Rosa quoted, “If Julián leaves me, I’ll make sure he can’t leave anyone else. There are ways to silence someone forever. You just have to keep a cool head.” Marta clenched her fists, only speaking out of frustration. Luis stood up and placed an evidence bag on the table. This isn’t frustration. He pulled out the cast-iron skillet with dried blood stains on the rim. The blood matches Julián’s DNA.
This is the murder weapon. Not words. Marta lowered her head, then raised it in a lower voice. And why don’t they also say that Julián filed for divorce, that he wanted to take custody of my daughter, that he was going to kick me out of the house I helped build, what did they want me to do? Ricardo responded firmly. No one forced him to kill. There is a law. The law wasn’t there when I cried every night, Marta murmured. The law didn’t listen when I begged him not to throw me away like garbage.
Rosa spoke slowly. No one denies pain, but no pain justifies burying a person under the kitchen floor. After the hearing, the investigative team expanded the file on Marta’s relationships with those around her. Luis called Laura Méndez, a former close friend, to clarify the threatening messages. Laura, a thin woman with curly hair and a somewhat distracted voice, hesitated at first. “Marta and I were very close,” she said. She used to need a lot of attention. She became upset easily.
“Do you remember anything Marta said about Julián?” Ricardo asked. Laura tried to remember. She once told me, “I hate the way he looks at the girl, as if she were only his. If I lose Victoria, I’ll have nothing left. I thought it was just jealousy.” Rosa asked, “Do you think Marta would be capable of killing?” Laura was silent for a moment, then murmured, “I don’t want to believe it.” But when I learned that Julián had disappeared, I wasn’t surprised. I’d seen that look on her before. It wasn’t that of a sad woman, it was that of someone who’d made up her mind.
That night at Carmen’s house, Victoria played with building blocks, arranging the pieces in a square shape with a plastic human figure in the center. Carmen watched her silently. “What are you doing, Victoria? I’m building a little bed for Daddy,” the girl replied, “Like the one we had in our house.” Carmen shuddered. Daddy isn’t there anymore, my love. He’s in a better place. No, he isn’t. Victoria shook her head. Daddy’s still cold. I see him shivering in my dreams.
Carmen hugged her tightly. “Daddy loves you very much, but now he needs you to be strong. He’ll be happy if you’re okay and loved.” Victoria looked up at her grandmother, her voice soft as the wind. “So, Mommy loves me.” Carmen said, “Your mommy did something very wrong, but you didn’t do anything wrong, Victoria. You’re just a little girl, and you’re going to be protected.” At the detention center, Marta received a visit from her defense attorney, Mr. Vicente Aranda, a man in his 50s with graying hair, known for defending defendants in difficult situations.
Vicente spoke directly. Marta, I’m not going to help you deny the facts, but I can help you retain some dignity if you cooperate and are honest. Dignity. Marta gave a dry laugh. I buried her along with Julián. Vicente looked her straight in the eyes. You have a chance so that your daughter won’t have to be ashamed of your name in the future. Marta remained silent, but for the first time her gaze wasn’t cold. She seemed confused, perhaps remorseful. The next morning, Rosa presented the report to the provincial judge.
The physical evidence, cell phone data, recovered video, the minor’s testimony, and the crime scene all match. Marta Gómez had the motive, the opportunity, and the means. She acted with premeditation, falsified the scene, and even coerced a child into silence. We formally requested charges of first-degree premeditated murder, as well as concealment of a corpse and inciting a minor not to testify. The judge agreed. He authorized the defendant’s pretrial detention until the formal trial.
Luis looked out the window of the courthouse, where the dawn light illuminated the street. He saw no hope in that light. He only saw how it exposed the truth more nakedly than ever. A man had died believing in love. A girl had lost her childhood after witnessing her father’s death, and a woman, perhaps once wounded, had chosen to wound with her own hands. Dr. Lucía Beltrán’s children’s psychological office was on the second floor of a red brick building in the center of Salamanca.
Doña Carmen held Victoria’s hand as they entered. Her face reflected tension, although she tried to remain calm throughout the walk. Victoria hadn’t said a single word since morning. Sono was tightly hugging her old Pipo teddy bear, a birthday gift from Julián the year before, and walking slowly. A nurse named Dolores González came out to greet them. “Good afternoon, Doña Carmen. May Victoria come with me to the living room?” Carmen looked at her granddaughter and nodded gently. “Grandma will be right outside, my love.”
Victoria didn’t respond. She turned her face away, but allowed Dolores to guide her inside. The therapy room was colorful. In one corner, there was a shelf of picture books, in another, a dollhouse. Victoria was invited to sit in a small chair opposite Dr. Lucía Beltrán, a woman in her 40s with light brown hair and a serene gaze. “Your name’s Victoria, right?” Lucía asked, her voice as soft as the wind. Victoria nodded. “Do you like to draw?”
Victoria nodded again. She took out a small wax crayon and a sheet of paper folded in four. She unfolded it and placed it on the table. It was a messy drawing. Lucía studied it carefully. It showed a room, a kitchen, and a figure lying on the tiled floor. The tiles were colored gray. The man was face down, with no eyes or mouth, just a black figure. “Who is this person?” Victoria, “It’s Dad,” she answered. Lucía closed her eyes for a second.
What’s Dad doing? Dad is lying on the floor. Where are the new tiles? He’s very cold. Lucía tilted her head gently. Who told you that? I heard it. Dad is calling me. I dreamed of him shivering, saying, “Victoria, I’m cold.” Outside, Doña Carmen was sitting next to Luis, who had just arrived to receive the report. “He doesn’t talk much,” Carmen sighed. “But my granddaughter, she knows, she knows more than we think.” Luis remained silent, thoughtful. I once asked Victoria, “Where is your dad?”
And he answered without hesitation, with the harshest truth. Carmen looked at him, her voice cracking. No 4-year-old should have to live with that truth, Mr. Chief of Police. Luis nodded. I know. Inside the therapy room, Lucía continued talking. Who put Dad under the floorboards? Victoria. “Mom,” she said in a calm voice, as if telling a story. “What did Mom do to Dad?” Mom told him to be quiet. Then she grabbed the frying pan. She hit him really hard. Dad stayed still.
Lucía quickly jotted down notes. Were you afraid? Victoria lowered her head. She couldn’t be afraid. Mom said if she told anyone, the family would fall apart. Then she cried. It scared me to see her cry. Lucía lowered her pen and took a deep breath. This was a clear case of PTSD. The girl not only witnessed a death, but she was forced to remain silent. A burden too heavy for a 4-year-old. That night at Carmen’s house, Victoria returned from therapy.
She didn’t eat much for dinner; she just sat down to draw. Carmen silently approached to look. The drawing showed a man, this time standing next to a little girl holding a balloon. “Who is this, honey?” “It’s Dad,” Victoria replied. “He’s not cold anymore; he has a balloon.” Carmen couldn’t speak; she hugged her granddaughter tightly. But that night, while Victoria slept, she cried again in her sleep, murmuring, “Don’t leave me, Dad. Don’t let Mom close the door.” Carmen held her all night without being able to sleep a wink.
The following morning, Victoria, Dr. Lucía went to the police station at Rosa Marín’s request to submit her psychological evaluation. “I can’t present the girl as an official witness,” Lucía began, “but her story is very consistent; it coincides with the facts under investigation. She accurately describes the time, the location of the body, and Marta Gómez’s actions.” Rosa asked, “The girl is afraid of her mother.” “Not in the traditional sense,” Lucía replied. “She’s afraid of losing her love.”
He’s afraid of betraying her. The child’s mind believes that Mom loves him no matter what she’s done. Luis intervened. Would it be possible to use the drawings as a form of emotional evidence at trial? Lucía thought for a moment. Legally, no, but emotionally and socially, they carry weight. If the court allows it, I can testify as an expert on the psychological effects of the crime on the minor. Rosa nodded. I will request that the drawings be added to the file. That afternoon, a journalist named Santiago Varela, who specializes in investigative reporting, approached Luis with a proposal.
Mr. Ramos, I heard about the Marta Gómez case. I’d like to write a report. I won’t mention the girl’s name. I just want the public to know that there are children caught up in crimes that no one sees. Luis considered this. As long as you don’t cause any more harm to Victoria, you can access the non-confidential information. Santiago nodded. I want to title it: Dad Under the Tiles. The Truth Told by a Little Girl. Luis looked at him for a long time and then said softly, write it with your heart, not just with a pen.
At the detention center, Marta received her daughter’s psychological report, delivered by attorney Vicente Aranda. The girl needs long-term therapy. She still calls you “Mom,” but she has nightmares every night. She says you hit her with a frying pan, that you forced her to be quiet. Marta trembled. She remembers. Vicente was direct. He doesn’t just remember it, he draws it. Every tile, every word you left for your daughter, in addition to a buried childhood. Marta bit her lip until it bled, but didn’t respond.
Luis stayed in his office late, alone. On his desk was a stack of Victoria’s drawings. They all showed the kitchen floor, the cloth bag, a body, or black shadows. He touched one of the pages gently. It showed two figures: a crying girl and an adult crouching beside her. In one corner, Victoria had written in shaky handwriting, “I miss you, Dad.” Luis sighed and wrote in his research journal, “It’s not just the adults who carry the pain.
Sometimes the smallest ones carry the heaviest truths. And they are the ones who first name evil with the most sincere voice. Dad is under the kitchen floor. Four days after Marta was formally charged, Luis’s investigative team received a detailed financial report from the Central Bank of Salamanca. The document, more than 50 pages long, listed all of Marta Gómez’s transactions in the three months prior to the crime.
Ricardo Muñoz flipped through the pages, frowning as he noticed a repetitive sequence of cash withdrawals at 2 a.m., right around the time Marta used to say she couldn’t sleep and went to the night supermarket, but no supermarket was open at that time. “She didn’t go to the supermarket,” Ricardo stated confidently. She was going to make payments secretly so no one would know. Maybe she was paying someone or buying materials without leaving a trace. Luis nodded.
Let’s cross-reference the ATM history near her home. Look for security cameras within a 3-kilometer radius. Three hours later, young officer Ignacio Ramírez brought back a video from an ATM less than two blocks from Marta’s house. In it, Marta appeared wearing a hat and dark glasses, withdrawing more than 2 million pesos in cash at 2:16 a.m., exactly three days before Julián disappeared. Luis looked at Ricardo.
Cash, no trace, at night, preparing something he didn’t want known. Ricardo added, or preparing for a life without Julián. Prosecutor Rosa Marina expanded the investigation by requesting the National Property Agency (Agencia Nacional de Bienes) confirm the ownership of the house where Marta and Julián lived. The report confirmed that the house was Julián’s sole property, inherited from his father, in his name since before the marriage. Marta had no co-ownership rights. Luis received the report in a grave voice, the reason more than clear.
If Julián got divorced, she would lose the house, the daughter, everything. Killing was the only way if she wanted to keep everything. Rosa nodded. We need to delve deeper into Marta’s relationship with Salvador and Barra. Maybe he wasn’t directly involved, but he was an emotional trigger. Salvador Ibarra was summoned a second time, this time without coffee, without water, without smiles. Luis and Rosa confronted him in a gray and white room under cold fluorescent lighting. “We checked his phone,” Rosa began.
We found hundreds of messages between you and Marta. In one, she writes, “I’ll be free soon.” Wait for me. Yes. And you reply, “Don’t do anything you might regret.” Salvador swallowed. He didn’t know anything about the murder, but he knew Julián was planning a divorce, Luis pressed. “Yes. Marta told me. She said he wanted to take Victoria away from her. I was devastated. I thought she just needed someone to talk to. I didn’t know, I didn’t believe. Did she promise him something?” Rosa asked directly.
Salvador lowered his head. He told me that if Julián left, he would sell the house, that he needed the money to move with me to Madrid. Luis slammed the table, so she killed herself to keep the house and start a new life with you. Salvador trembled. I didn’t know he would go this far. I swear. Back at the police station, Rosa ordered a thorough examination of the digital accounts, especially cryptocurrency transactions. Ignacio found a hidden digital wallet where Marta transferred up to 4 million pesos almost a week after Julián was reported missing.
Ricardo walked out the entrance to the police station and lit a cigarette. Luis followed him, placing a hand on his shoulder. “It’s incredible,” Ricardo exhaled. “She didn’t kill on impulse. She planned it, every detail.” “Not only that,” Luis said in a low voice. “She made her only daughter an involuntary witness.” She didn’t just kill Julián; she stole Victoria’s childhood. That night, Carmen was reviewing the case file with family lawyer Álvaro Peña. “Do you want to file a lawsuit for official guardianship?” he asked.
“It’s not that I want to, it’s that I must,” Carmen replied. “I will never let my granddaughter go back to that woman again.” Álvaro was cautious. Criminal and civil cases are usually handled separately, but in this one, with the available evidence, we can link them. You must state that clearly at the hearing.” Carmen nodded. “I will do everything necessary for Victoria.” Three days later, in a closed-door meeting between the prosecution and the presiding judge, Rosa filed a motion to add new charges: inciting a minor to remain silent and tampering with the testimony of a minor.
Based on the girl’s account, her drawings, and Dr. Lucía Beltrán’s report, the defendant intimidated her daughter even after the crime to conceal the facts. The judge asked, “Is there a psychological impact?” Of course, on the minor. Rosa responded, “The girl is 4 years old, Your Honor, and she had to keep a secret that even adults fear. If that’s not harm, I don’t know what is.” Luis added, “We also request consideration of financial fraud following the murder for the purpose of illicit appropriation of assets.”
The judge nodded. I approve the addition of the charges. The case will be treated under the umbrella of especially serious crimes. A week later, Victoria attended a group therapy session organized by Dr. Lucía. In the room were four more children, each with a different loss. Some lost their parents in accidents, others were abandoned. Lucía encouraged the children to draw the place where they feel safest. Victoria drew her grandmother, her teddy bear Pipo, and a chair by the window, but in the right corner, a black figure still appeared lying on the floor.
Lucía sat down next to her. “Who is that darling? It’s Dad,” Victoria replied. “Where is Dad? He’s resting, but she told me not to worry. She said, “You did well, Victoria. Thanks to you, I haven’t been forgotten.” Lucía bit her lip, her eyes moist. She wrote in her therapeutic journal. No one is born to keep a secret about death. But Victoria, with an innocent phrase, “Dad is under the kitchen floor,” opened the door to justice. She’s not just a witness; she’s the first light in the darkest room.
In prison, Marta received the news. Salvador Ibarra had been charged with accessory after the
