‘LOCAL NANNY ACCUSED OF STEALING FAMILY HEIRLOOM.’
Esteban scanned the words below. They were filled with heinous, horrible lies about how MaMaLu had stolen Skye’s necklace and how it had been found in her quarters. In a statement issued to the police, when the necklace was returned to him, Warren Sedgewick had expressed his shock and disbelief:
“Maria Luisa Alvarez was a trusted employee and a friend of my wife’s. This necklace belonged to Adriana and means a great deal to my daughter. I find it hard to believe that Skye’s nanny would be capable of committing such a crime against our family.”
It all fell into place for Esteban. The night he had seen Victor leaving their room, was the night Victor had planted the necklace. The cops who had swooped in to take MaMaLu away were all in on it. Esteban had been naive then, but now he understood how it worked.
Nothing . . . permanent, Warren had said to Victor.
Victor had framed MaMaLu for a crime she didn’t commit, and Warren had made sure she stayed locked up with his fake statement. Esteban felt like an idiot, running to Casa Paloma, expecting Warren to help. Victor had followed orders, but it was Warren Sedgewick who’d issued them.
He was to blame for this. Him and the man they called El Charro. They had done this to protect themselves, because MaMaLu had seen them, she could connect them and all the other members of the cartel that had gathered at Casa Paloma that afternoon.
Look after it, Warren had said, because he didn’t want to get his hands dirty; he never wanted to get his hands dirty. He’d left in a hurry, in case it caught up to him, in case MaMaLu talked, in case El Charro changed his mind about letting him leave the country.
The two of them had left MaMaLu to rot in jail.
“Where is she?” Esteban turned to the guard. “Where is my mother?”
“Concha.” The guard who had been looking up files in the office stood at the entrance and held out a piece of paper.
Concha walked over to her and scanned it. “Sorry.” She looked at Esteban. “Maria Luisa Alvarez is dead.”
It was so ludicrous, Esteban laughed. “What? Are you mad? I heard her singing just the other day.”
He started looking for her, flinging aside makeshift curtains and cardboard partitions. “MaMaLu!” He walked from dorm to dorm, leaving a trail of startled, wailing babies. “Sing, MaMaLu. Sing for your Estebandido, so I can find you.”
Concha and the other guard pulled him into the courtyard. “Stop! Your mother contracted tuberculosis and died from complications related to it.” They held up the paper for him. “We notified her next of kin, her brother Fernando, but no one came. She was buried with the other unclaimed prisoners. This is her prisoner and plot number.”
Esteban wanted to shut their mouths. Every word they said made it worse. He wanted to shut his eyes and his ears. He wanted to go back, take Juan Pablo’s gun, and point it to his own head.
“No.”
“No.”
“No.”
He kept repeating.
He hated the way the women were staring at him from their dorms—some with pity, some with irritation at being disturbed, but most with blank, empty stares. They had seen it countless times. Prisoners had to buy their beds, their clothes, their privileges. If you couldn’t pay for the doctor, no one came to see you. And here, cramped in tight spaces, they’d seen it all: AIDS, flu, measles, tuberculosis. It was a breeding ground for all kinds of bugs and diseases, which, if left untreated, turned fatal.
Concha picked up the box Esteban had dropped and gave it to him. The tiny, rusted tin was all that was left of his mother. MaMaLu didn’t smoke, but it was probably the only thing she’d managed to scrounge up in this hell hole. He wondered how someone that took up so much space in his heart could be reduced to a scrap of red and green metal that smelled like tobacco.
“Mi madre está muerta,” he said softly, as he weighed it in his palm.
“My mother is dead!” he shouted, announcing it to the whole prison. His voice bounced off the bleak, gray walls that surrounded the compound.
No one cared. No one had told him. No one had asked what kind of funeral she’d like. Did they know to put flowers in her hair? Did they know her favorite color? Esteban hoped they had buried her in an orange dress, the color of tangerines. MaMaLu was just like that—full of zest and gold and sunshine and bite.
He held up her earrings. She always wore the same pair: two doves joined at the beak to form a silver circle. Esteban wanted nothing more than to hear the jangle of the small turquoise stones that hung from the hoops as she chased after him. He needed that because he’d been bad. Really, really bad.
Get your broom, MaMaLu. I promise I won’t run today. I’m sorry I didn’t make it to you in time. I tried. I tried so hard. I did bad things. I killed a man. You have to come after me, MaMaLu. Come after me because only you can save me. Only you can make it better.