“You’re joking!”
Suddenly, I wished I were. I felt like I had set something inexorable in motion, something ugly, though what could I possibly owe Lore if she’d been lying to me this whole time, if she’d murdered Andres and let Fabian go down for it, for thirty-five years?
“How sure are you that she killed him?” Deborah asked, clipped, excitement tempered by, probably, a laundry list of legalities. “Or at least conspired to kill him?”
I hesitated. “Seventy percent.”
“That’s a start. But not enough.”
“I know. I’m getting into Laredo now to see Lore, and I’m interviewing Fabian tomorrow. I’m hoping to get a confession from one or both of them.”
The line felt taut.
“The woman who lived a double life—and got away with murder,” Deborah said, as if trying the words out loud. “This is highly marketable, Cassie.”
Despite myself, a shiver of excitement ran through me. “Marketable . . . how?” I almost whispered.
Deborah laughed. “Don’t get me wrong, your initial concept had everything: secrets, lies, love, death. It was hooky as hell. But this could have real-time, real-world impact. It’s almost impossible to get a conviction overturned, but if your investigation exposes bad police work, gets the case reopened? There’s a hunger for this right now. It could be big.”
Big. Big meant money. If Duke and I were really over—the thought like a hammer to my chest—I’d be able to afford a place of my own. Somewhere with a room for Andrew, just in case. I could hire a lawyer if it came to that. With money, I’d be in a position not to fail him again. Because that’s the thing about money—once you have it, you can afford to have a moral center.
Deborah’s tone became more serious. “Right now, though, your only job is to find out the truth. Whatever it is, that’s what you’ll write.”
Her words sobered me. “Absolutely,” I said, as I took exit 4, stopping at a red light across from a Taco Palenque. The light turned green, and I crept left beneath the highway, sandwiched by eighteen-wheelers. Five minutes to Lore’s house.
“Call me as soon as you know. And Cassie?”
“Yes?”
Deborah paused. “Be careful.”
In Laredo, there was no evidence of the cold snap that had killed our three small potted succulents a few nights ago. The late-December evening felt like spring, a balmy breeze making inflatable Santas and Rudolphs sway drunkenly. The icicle lights dripping from Lore’s roof felt absurd, like the only colleague who shows up in costume on Halloween. I smoothed my shirt, made sure my phone was recording, and knocked.
Lore opened the door holding a glass of red wine. Despite the warmth, she wore a red cable-knit sweater. I couldn’t help noticing how similar it was to the one in the Christmas portrait with Andres’s family.
“?Pásale, pásale!” she said, giving me a hug and kiss on the cheek as she ushered me inside. So different from our first meeting, when she’d peeled off her gardening gloves with that exaggerated sense of inconvenience. “How was your drive? What would you like to drink? Everyone’s in the kitchen.” She glanced at me. Then she stopped. “Mija, ?qué te pasa? Are you okay?”
I forced a smile. “Of course. Why?”
“You look . . .” She examined me the way a mother would: hand on my elbow, worried eyes taking in my dark circles, chapped lips. “Sad.”
Oh, God. I ducked my head, pretending to search for something in my bag as I fought an unwieldy surge of emotion. Did Lore actually care about me, or was this an act? When she took my hand, I looked up. She was staring at my bare ring finger. Allie had been messaging me from the farm: You broke up?!?!? Call me! But I couldn’t bear to hear her voice, to think of everything I was giving up by giving up Duke. Soon, I had texted her back.
Lore set her wineglass down on a side table and pulled me into a tight, rose-scented hug. “We’ll eat dinner and then you’ll tell me what happened,” she said quietly in my ear. “?Sí?”
I let my eyes close for a second. “Okay. I’ll take that drink now.”
She pulled away, squeezing my hand. That was when I noticed—the white walls and gold-framed watercolors were gone, replaced by rich color and bold abstract paintings. Lore smiled, following my gaze around the rooms that had never matched her vibrancy; the home she hadn’t thought she deserved to create for herself.
“Do you like it?” Lore asked. “The furniture will be an ongoing project, pero ni modo.”
“I love it,” I said. “What made you do it?”
“You.”
She smiled at me. Before I could ask her what she meant, we were in the kitchen. Mateo and Gabriel sat on leather barstools at the island, while Brenda, a petite dark-haired woman, arranged plastic dinosaur plates before two little boys at a miniature wooden table. Cartoons played from the living room TV, visible from the kids’ seats.
“Everyone,” Lore said, “this is Cassie.”
I waved, embarrassed by the flush creeping up my neck. I focused on Mateo, the only familiar face. He looked more relaxed than I remembered in a blue checked button-down and jeans, a light stubble. His hair had grown slightly, waving up over the tips of his ears. His gaze lingered, curious and direct, as though he, too, saw something different in me. I’d emailed him several times since our strange late-night conversation, and while he’d responded each time, his answers were concise, nothing more than the bare minimum, as if he’d crawled back into himself. Maybe he’d been drinking that night. It would explain the late hour, the sudden willingness to talk. But a part of me hoped that wasn’t it.
“Glad you could join us,” Mateo finally said, and if it didn’t sound wholly genuine, at least there was no hostility, unlike from Gabriel, who muttered, “Speak for yourself.”
Gabriel was heavier than Mateo, with fleshy forearms resting on the island, though the resemblance was still uncanny—the same full, elegant brows, even the same way of sitting, elbows cocked out to the sides. But where Mateo was calm, Gabriel seemed on the verge of jumping from his seat even though no visible part of him was moving.
“Gabriel, honestly.” Brenda pressed a button on the remote, lowering the volume on the TV. She came over and shook my hand firmly, her dark eyes sharp and assessing, though not unfriendly. “It’s nice to meet you.”
Soon we were sitting in the dining room, now painted a rich burgundy, the low light bouncing off a gilt mirror. My wineglass was full for the second time, my plate heaped with tamales, rice, and beans. A platter in the center of the table collected corn husks spackled with dough. Occasionally there was a clatter from the kids, who were eating at the small wooden picnic table in the pass-through kitchen—sippy cups dropping, an argument over the remote—and the younger one, freckled Joseph, eventually climbed onto Brenda’s lap and pointed at me, asking in a theatrical whisper, “Who that, Mommy?” I wondered how Brenda would explain me. She answered smoothly, “That’s Cassie. Say hi.” Joseph tilted his head into Brenda’s neck and kept his eyes on me, grinning crookedly as he lifted his hand. I smiled and lifted mine back.