Fonseca ran a finger near the letters.
They were still wet.
—Camilo.
—Yes?
—Don’t call the police.
The young man looked at him in disbelief.
—How not?
—Because if those people outside are who I think they are, calling the police is not going to help us.
—And what are we supposed to do?
Fonseca raised the black key he had found in the habit.
—Let’s go to the convent.
