When he leaned closer, he saw the dark mark beneath the torn fabric.
He exchanged a quick glance with Camilo, then they carefully turned the body over.
Fonseca whispered a prayer out of habit.
Then he asked for scissors and cut open the habit.
A second later, his breath caught.
It wasn’t a tattoo.
It was a message.
Words had been written directly across the girl’s skin in an unsteady but perfectly legible handwriting:
Do not perform the autopsy. Wait two hours. What you need is in the pocket of my habit.
Camilo crossed himself so quickly that his hand trembled.
“No… no, that can’t be.”
Camilo remained motionless.
