The girl’s breathing became so rapid that Lucia took her hand away from the keyboard, as if she wanted to reach her through the phone.
—No… he’s here…
Lucia felt the sharp thud of her heart against her chest.
—Tell me your address, please.
The girl took a few seconds to answer, as if she had to gather the courage to betray an order.
—Encinos Street… 247… Valle del Roble neighborhood…
Lucía immediately issued an alert. The nearest patrol was less than 5 minutes away. Officer Esteban Ríos and his partner, Sub-Officer Mariela Torres, responded.
“Unit 18 is on its way,” Esteban said over the radio.
As the patrol moved through half-empty streets and past the lights of stalls that were already turned off, Lucia continued talking to the girl.
—Sofi, stay with me. Don’t hang up.
—My dad said not to talk to anyone…
—They’re almost here for you.
—But he’s going to listen to me…
Then footsteps sounded.
Boards.
Heavy.
Going up a staircase.
The girl let out a small, desperate gasp.
—It’s going up…
—Sofi…
But the call was cut off.
The house at Encinos 247 looked like a tranquil, working-class postcard. A white gate, rows of potted plants, a child’s bicycle leaning against the side of the hallway, warm spotlights on the porch. Nothing screamed danger. Nothing foreshadowed the horror.
Mariela knocked firmly on the door.
Five seconds passed.
Then 10.
Finally, a tall man, about 42 years old, wearing a gray t-shirt and work boots, opened the door. His perfect calmness was almost irritating.
—Good evening, officers.
—We received an emergency call from this house— Esteban said.
The man frowned, just enough.
—It must be a mistake.
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