The day of the hearing arrived. The courtroom was cold and imposing, all polished wood and stern faces. Don Ricardo Alcantara looked shrunken in his suit. Hector, sitting beside his lawyer, refused to meet my eyes.
Then there was Arturo Vega. He sat perfectly still, his back ramrod straight, his expression one of bored contempt. His eyes, those hawk-like eyes, scanned the room and landed on me. There was no acknowledgment this time, only a blank, professional assessment. I was just another piece of testimony to be managed.
When it was my turn, I walked to the stand on legs that felt like water. I unfolded my statement. My voice shook at first as I read about the notes, the threats, the constant fear. But as I spoke about the plaza, about the promise, about the weight of the secret, my voice steadied. I wasn't just talking about intimidation; I was talking about her. I was giving Luna a voice in that cold room. I finished by looking directly at Vega. "You tried to bury the truth in the dark. But some stories," I said, my voice clear now, "are meant for the light." He didn't flinch, but I saw a tiny muscle twitch in his jaw. It was enough.