Andres’s two children, Penelope and Carlos, were forty-nine and forty-six. Penelope was a psychology professor at the UNAM, the same university where Andres had taught. Carlos, according to Facebook, was a drummer in a band, though their events page was rarely updated. His profile picture—head down, drumsticks in hand, sweaty hair in his eyes—was two years old. Penelope hadn’t returned my calls or emails, and I couldn’t be sure Carlos had seen my Facebook messages.
Lore’s sister, Marta, who had been on the phone with Lore while Fabian was spotted at Hotel Botanica, didn’t want to talk. But with some Googling, I reached her husband, Sergio, at work, and he told me he’d call back when he had a chance. If it got back to Lore that I was doing outside research about Andres’s last day, I’d tell her I was fulfilling my end of our agreement—not asking her about it, since she refused to answer anyway.
The week after watching Fabian’s police tapes, I got lucky with Lore’s former colleague, Oscar Martinez. Oscar, who was the only one besides Lore who may have seen Andres’s note, was now an executive vice president at the same bank where he and Lore used to work together. He answered his extension with a rough smoker’s bark.
“Oscar Martinez.”
“Oscar, hi.” I shifted on the love seat, the early-fall sun casting shadows of moving leaves on my keyboard. “My name is Cassie Bowman. I’m working on a book with Lore Rivera, about her life back in the eighties. I know you two worked together. Could I ask you a few questions?”
“Her life in the eighties,” Oscar repeated. “You mean that LMT article that came out a couple months ago.”
“I have nothing to do with that piece,” I said. “In fact, that’s why Lore agreed to work with me—so we could tell her side of the story.”
“Uh-huh.” Oscar sounded skeptical. But he didn’t hang up.
“So, were you two friends back then?”
“Sure,” Oscar said. “It was a small department.”
“How many were you?”
“Well, let’s see—one branch, about sixty employees. International was maybe . . . five of us?”
“Did you travel together often, you and Lore?”
“Every few months. But we each had our own clients, with their own needs, so we traveled on our own more regularly.”
“Were any questions ever raised about her travel?” I asked. “How often she went, how long she stayed, that kind of thing?”
Oscar let out a thoughtful exhale. “Pues . . . not that I can remember. I think at one point she had a sick grandmother—” He cut himself off. “Or said she did. I never did find out if that was true. But I think she went more because of that.”
“It can be hard after the fact,” I said. “Trying to figure out the truth among the lies. Were you two friends outside of work?”
“There wasn’t much ‘outside of work’ during those times. There were years I don’t remember anyone socializing. You went to work, if you still had a job, and you went home to your family. Eso era todo.”
I was used to untranslated Spanish words and phrases by now. I Googled them later. “But you knew she was married to Fabian, had the twins, all that?”
“Of course.”
My heart rate picked up. “You must have been surprised to meet Andres Russo, then.”
Oscar didn’t respond.
“What were your impressions of him when he came to the bank?” I pressed.
“Look, I really don’t know if Lore would want me talking about that.”
“Oscar, Lore is telling me every aspect of their relationship. You don’t need to worry.” It was the first time I felt guilty.
“Okay . . .” Oscar sounded like a man who wanted to believe what he was told.
“How did Andres seem to you?” I asked. Quiet, calm. Trying not to spook him. “What was his emotional state?”
“Well,” Oscar said, slowly, “he was nicely dressed, polite. Smiling, at first, when he introduced himself.”
I winced, feeling for Andres, for everything that was to come. “Did he introduce himself by name, or as Lore’s husband?”
“Both.” His voice lifted with incredulity, even now, though with an odd curl of scorn. “Obviously, at first I thought it was a mistake. Then, when he showed me the picture, I was like, chinga—I didn’t know what to think.”
I looked up from the computer screen, where I was typing notes. I couldn’t remember seeing anything about a photo being found on Andres’s body. “Picture? Of the two of them?”
“Yeah. Supposedly on their wedding day. But look, after Lore told me how he was bothering her—I mean, we all make mistakes. I just wish—” He cut off.
My questions split off in three directions at once. “Wish what, Oscar?”
“I don’t know—that I would’ve done something to help. But Lore was very independent like that.”
“Let’s go back. She said Andres was bothering her? Bothering her how? When did she tell you this?”
“When she came back to the bank that afternoon, after I gave her the note he left.” Oscar sounded harried. “She didn’t go into detail. But again, that’s Lore. You could tell she was rattled, though.”
“How so?” I asked. The woman I knew was always in control.
“She was looking for her keys to lock up her office. Ended up dropping her whole purse on the floor. Everything spilled out.” Oscar’s voice shifted, halting. Worried he was saying too much. “You know, maybe I should call her first. Just to make sure she wants me talking to you.”
“Of course,” I said. “Quickly, though—did you happen to read Andres’s note?”
“No, she threw everything in the trash right after she read it.”
My breath caught, like a fingernail snagged on a thread. “Everything? What’s everything?”
Silence.
“I’m going to call Lore now,” Oscar said.
Lore, 1983–1984
Four times. Four times Lore had sex with a man who isn’t her husband. And then this morning he made her café de olla, telling her, “Stay in bed, I’ll bring it.” Andres had looked so happy and light, she could hardly meet his eyes. Now, as she drives to Marta’s house to pick up the cuates, her body feels tender and sore, a keeper of secrets.
When Marta opens the door, the house is quiet. It smells like the morning’s bacon and chorizo.
“I guess you haven’t been home yet,” Marta says, hugging Lore.
“No, I came straight here.” Lore takes a step backward, irrationally afraid Marta will feel something different about her. “Why?”
Marta smiles mischievously. “Well, go.”
Three turns, and Lore is in her neighborhood. Only a few years ago, all the FOR SALE signs would have brought a surge of excitement. It’s a buyer’s market, she’d have said to Fabian. Now every sign is a glimpse of the desperation behind those curtained windows. She once thought owning a home meant you had made it. Now she understands you never own anything. These rambling ranch-style houses are little more than stage sets; they can be bustled off into the wings while you’re still brushing your teeth in the morning.
She sees it from half a block away: Fabian’s truck. It’s parked in their narrow driveway, where Lore usually parks. Her fingers fly to her swollen lips. What is he doing here? He isn’t supposed to be back until Thanksgiving, almost two weeks from now! She isn’t ready. Her Mexico City self—her Andres self—is half-exposed. She can still feel Andres’s hands on her from when they awoke this morning. Running from her ankle to the curve of her hip, her ribs, her breast, then back down, their legs intertwined. The strong, rhythmic way he moved. Her chin and nose reddened by stubble.