At the pediatric emergency room of La Fe Hospital, they took us to a private room. A young doctor examined the girl gently. His words were a slap of reality:
“She’s malnourished, but not critically. However, what’s worrying is that she doesn’t show normal eating habits for her age. It’s something learned, not spontaneous.”
The officers took statements while Lucía fell asleep, exhausted. I tried to answer, although every word made me feel more and more guilty. How could I not have seen it before? How could I not have insisted?
When they finished, Clara took me aside.
—We know this is hard, but what you did today may have saved his life.
“And Javier?” I asked, a lump forming in my throat. “Do you think…?”
Clara sighed.
“We don’t know everything yet. But there are indications that someone in his previous life used food as a form of punishment. He may have known… or he may not have.”
My phone rang: a message from Javier saying he had arrived at his hotel in Madrid. He knew nothing about what had happened.
The police advised me not to tell him anything for the time being.
We spent the night under observation. The next morning, a child psychologist arrived and spoke with Lucía for a long time. I didn’t understand everything she said, but enough to feel a chill: there was fear, conditioning, and secrets kept for far too long.
And then, just when I thought I had heard everything, the psychologist left the room, her face serious.
