Fonseca brought the surgical lamp closer and examined the inscription.
The letters had minimal depth, like small scarred cuts.
—This couldn’t be done after dying —he murmured.
—Because?
—Because the skin would no longer react like that.
Camilo paled.
—Then someone wrote it to her when she was alive.
Fonseca did not respond.
With tweezers he carefully lifted the edge of the habit.
—Here.
There was a small pocket hidden inside the fabric.
He put his hand in.
His fingers touched something hard.
He took out an object wrapped in a piece of white clot
It was a key.
Ancient.
Black.
And it had a symbol engraved on it that Fonseca immediately recognized.
A cross.
But it was not a normal cross.
It had four equal arms and, in the center, a small circle.
Camilo approached.
—What opens?
Fonseca looked at the key for several seconds.
—I don’t know.
Then they heard a knock.
