I had barely left the station when my phone rang.

An unknown military number.

I answered.

—Colonel Renata Vega?

—Speaking.

—This is the Inspector General’s Office. We received the recording involving Brigadier General Julián Salazar.

I stopped walking.

—And?

—We need you to come in tomorrow morning.

I looked back at the station.

Through the glass, Julián was still standing beside Jimena and the little girl.

—I’ll be there.

I hung up.

Behind me came footsteps.

—Renata!

Julián caught up with me.

Jimena remained several meters away, holding the girl’s hand.

—What did my father tell you before he died?

I turned.

—Enough.

His face hardened.

—He was medicated. He didn’t know what he was saying.

—Interesting.

I smiled.

—Because he gave me dates, addresses and the name of the school where that girl has been enrolled for four years.

Julián went pale.

For the first time, the decorated general had no prepared answer.

—You investigated me?

—No.

I looked toward Jimena.

—Your father did.

That silenced him.

Before dying, Colonel Salazar had given me more than a confession.

He had given me a key.

A safe-deposit box.

Inside were photographs, bank transfers and letters Julián had sent him secretly during those five years.

Not from a military base.

From a house registered to Jimena.

Julián lowered his voice.

—Renata, there are things you don’t understand.

—Then explain one.

I pointed toward the child.

—Whose daughter is she?

His eyes moved away.

Jimena suddenly shouted:

—Julián, don’t!

That was all I needed.

He turned sharply toward her.

Too late.

I laughed once.

—An orphan of a fallen brother-in-arms?

Neither answered.

Then the little girl looked up at Jimena.

—Mom, why are you crying?

Silence.

Julián closed his eyes.

I felt nothing.

Not even surprise.

I simply turned and walked away.

The next morning, I entered military headquarters carrying Colonel Salazar’s box.

Three officers were waiting.

I placed everything on the table.

The lead investigator opened the first folder.

Then the second.

His expression became increasingly serious.

—Colonel Vega, did General Salazar ever tell you he was assigned to Operation Night Falcon?

—That was the operation he claimed required him to disappear.

The officer exchanged a look with the others.

Then he pushed a document toward me.

—Operation Night Falcon lasted eleven months.

My fingers stopped.

—What?

—And Brigadier General Salazar was never assigned to it.

I stared at him.

Five years.

Five years of lies collapsed in one sentence.

The investigator continued:

—His official personnel file shows repeated overseas training and administrative assignments.

—Then how did nobody know where he was?

He hesitated.

—Because someone altered his records.

That surprised me.

—Who?

—We’re determining that.

My phone vibrated.

Julián.

I declined.

Again.

Declined.

Then a message arrived.

“Renata, don’t give them anything else. My father’s box doesn’t contain the whole truth.”

I showed it to the investigator.

His expression changed.

—Don’t respond.

An hour later, security informed us that Julián had arrived at headquarters.

He came voluntarily.

No Jimena.

No child.

When he entered the interview room and saw me, something in his face broke.

—You really gave them everything.

—You gave me five years to think about it.

He sat opposite me.

Then placed an envelope on the table.

—The girl isn’t mine.

I didn’t react.

—Then why does she call you Dad?

—Because I’ve raised her since she was a baby.

—And Jimena?

He looked at me.

—Jimena isn’t my lover.

I almost laughed.

—I saw how you protect her.

—Because I promised someone I would.

He pushed the envelope toward me.

Inside was a birth certificate.

I read the father’s name.

And stopped.

It wasn’t Julián Salazar.

It was Mateo Salazar.

Julián’s older brother.

The same man everyone had told me died in a helicopter accident seven years ago.

I looked up.

—Mateo died.

Julián’s face became strangely cold.

—That’s what our family was told.

He reached into the envelope and removed one final photograph.

Mateo.

Alive.

Holding the same little girl.

The photograph was dated only eighteen months earlier.

My heartbeat changed.

—Where is he?

Julián didn’t answer immediately.

Instead, he looked through the observation glass at the officers outside.

Then he leaned closer.

—My father didn’t expose me because he discovered I had abandoned you.

His voice dropped.

—He exposed me because, before he died, he finally discovered who had been using my identity for five years.

I stared at him.

Then Julián said the one sentence that changed everything.

—Renata, the orders that supposedly sent me away were signed by Mateo.

He paused.

—Three years after the military officially declared him dead.