PART 2: “Her mom didn’t leave,” I repeated, feeling like I couldn’t breathe.
The woman in dark glasses let out a dry laugh.
“This girl makes things up. My sister is a drug addict. She left days ago and abandoned the kid. I’m the only one taking care of her.”
Camila lowered her head.
Valentina didn’t.
“The backpack smells like that because of that bag,” my daughter said. “Not because of her.”
Teacher Lourdes, pale, tried to regain control.
“Maybe we should go to the principal’s office…”
“No,” I said. “We have to call the police.”
The woman glared at me.
“You don’t know what you’re getting yourself into.”
“And you’re not getting this girl out of here.”
She tried to take Camila again, but a dad from the lottery stand stepped in. Another mom called 911. The principal started talking on the radio with the security guard at the entrance. Then, in the struggle, the backpack fell to the floor and ripped open.
Folded notebooks, a dirty stuffed rabbit, a water bottle, a girl’s socks, and another smaller bag, also sealed with tape, spilled out. The smell became unbearable.
Camila covered her ears.
“I’m sorry, Mommy,” she murmured. “I did take care of you.”
I felt my heart break.
I approached her without touching her.
“Camila, where’s your mom?”
The woman yelled,
“Don’t answer her!”
But the girl was already broken.
“In the freezer,” she said.
The courtyard erupted in shouts.
Some parents pulled their children away. Others started recording. I yelled at them to put away their phones, that it wasn’t a show. The woman tried to run toward the exit, but two men stopped her until the police arrived.
When the police entered, the fair looked like something else entirely. The confetti fluttered in the wind, the stalls were still overflowing with food, but no one was eating. No one was speaking loudly. Everyone stared at Camila as if they were seeing her for the first time.
The woman said her name was Claudia Salazar. She claimed to be Camila’s aunt and temporary guardian. She said that her mother, Elena Ruiz, had relapsed into drug use and had gone to Tijuana with a man.
“Ask at the school,” she said. “I’ve been picking her up all week.”
Teacher Lourdes was crying.
“She told us that her mother was hospitalized…”
“And did anyone verify that?” I asked.
No one answered.
They took us to the police station. Valentina gave a statement to a child psychologist. She said that Camila hadn’t eaten since Tuesday, that she cried in the bathroom, and that one day she told her, “My mom is cold and won’t wake up.” Valentina thought she was sick. Then the smell started.
That night, a detective named Ramirez walked into the hallway, his face hard.
“We went to the girl’s house.”
I gripped the wall.
“And?”
“There was a large freezer in the service yard. Clean on the outside. Inside, we found traces of blood.”
“The mother?”
“She wasn’t there.”
The word chilled me to the bone.
