“Daddy’s Not Dead, He’s Under the Floor,” Said the Girl. The Police Began to Dig…

“Daddy’s not dead, he’s under the floor,” said the little girl.

The police began to dig.

Police Chief Luis Ramos looked up at the freshly delivered report.
Reporter’s name: Marta Gómez.
Content: missing husband, no leads, no additional notes.

But what caught his attention was that the report hadn’t been filed by Marta herself, but by a neighbor, Doña Francisca Díaz, who had arrived with a 4-year-old girl clutching a teddy bear tightly, her face completely pale.

“She didn’t want me to take the girl anywhere,” Francisca said in a hurried voice.
“But the girl said something very strange. You have to hear her.”

Luis sat down.
His gaze softened as he turned to Victoria.

“What’s your name?”

“My name is Victoria,” the girl replied in a whispery, barely audible voice.

“Do you know where your dad went?” he asked gently.

Victoria didn’t answer right away.
She lifted her gaze, her large dark eyes trembling, and then slowly said:
“Daddy is under the kitchen floor.”

The room froze.
Luis glanced at Francisca.
Her face was ashen.
A young officer nearby cleared his throat, trying to hide a shiver.

“What did you say?”

Luis leaned in, his voice no longer soft but cautious.

“Daddy is under the kitchen floor,” Victoria repeated.
“In the place where the tiles are lighter. Daddy is cold.”

A strange, heavy silence took over the room.
Luis motioned for his lieutenant, Ricardo Muñoz, to come closer.

“Bring Marta Gómez to the station.
Assemble a preliminary investigation team.
I want to review the scene within an hour.”

Less than 30 minutes later, Marta arrived, calmer and drier than Luis had expected.
She wore a white blouse, black pants, her hair tied back, and showed neither alarm nor grief on her face.

“I already said it,” Marta spoke calmly.
“My husband Julián has a habit of disappearing for days without warning. This isn’t the first time.”

“Didn’t you notice anything unusual?” Luis asked, his eyes fixed on Marta without blinking.

Luis didn’t look away.

“Your daughter says her father is under the kitchen floor,” he said evenly.

Marta smiled faintly. “Children imagine things. Victoria has nightmares.”

Luis nodded slowly, then stood.
“Then you won’t mind us taking a look.”

Marta’s smile stiffened—just for a second. Barely noticeable. But Luis caught it.

The apartment was clean. Too clean. The kind of clean that tries to erase something.

Victoria clung to Doña Francisca as the officers stepped into the kitchen. The tiles were pale beige—except for a small section near the sink that looked newer. Slightly lighter.

Luis crouched and ran his hand over them.

“Daddy sleeps here,” Victoria whispered, pointing. “Mommy told him to be quiet.”

Ricardo swallowed hard.

They brought in forensic tools. Marta stood against the doorway, arms crossed, breathing measured.

When the first tile cracked, a smell rose up—faint but unmistakable.

Death doesn’t shout.
It waits.

Luis closed his eyes briefly.
“Keep going.”

Beneath the tiles was a thin layer of concrete. Too thin for proper flooring. Too rushed.

And beneath that—

Julián Gómez.

Wrapped in plastic. Arms folded unnaturally. His face frozen in surprise.

Victoria began to cry softly.

Marta didn’t scream.

She didn’t faint.

She only sighed.

“I told him not to argue,” she said quietly, as if explaining a stain on a shirt. “He scared her. He drank. He wouldn’t stop.”

Luis turned slowly.

“You killed him?”

Marta looked at her daughter.

“I protected her.”

Victoria lifted her head then, eyes swollen with tears.

“No,” she whispered. “Daddy told Mommy he was going to take me away.”

Silence fell like a verdict.

Later, as Marta was led away in handcuffs, she finally broke.

“She remembers everything,” Marta sobbed. “I tried to make her forget.”

Luis watched Victoria sit on the curb, wrapped in a blanket, teddy bear pressed to her chest.

“She didn’t forget,” he said quietly. “She just told the truth.”

That night, Luis wrote one final note in the report:

The child did not imagine anything.
She remembered.

And for the rest of his career, whenever someone said children don’t understand,
Luis Ramos remembered the little girl who pointed at the floor and spoke calmly:

“Daddy is cold.”

Because sometimes, the smallest voices
carry the heaviest truths.