Somewhere in the hardened features of the man standing in front of me, I could see the softness of the teenager I’d once loved. But I couldn’t recognize him anymore. It was the saddest feeling I’d ever had, a sense of loss that was indescribable.
“It’s been too long,” I said. “You were gone for too long.”
“I had to.” His voice softened a notch. “But I never forgot you.”
A couple of years ago I would’ve said the same thing to him, but I couldn’t now. Not when I was standing in front of a stranger. Oh, why did he have to come back now when I’d already forgotten him?
“Go back to your rich friends, to your fancy new beau.” He turned to leave. “I won’t bother you anymore.”
CHAPTER 23
Puri
April 1920
My father’s grave was exactly where Don Pepe, the caveman, had told me—in the heart of the plantation, where he’d asked to be buried. I hadn’t been this close to my father’s body since I was two years old. And yet, I’d never been more distant.
“Hola, Papá,” I said aloud, not finding a better place to sit than on top of the grave where he rested. “I hope I’m not squashing you.”
Someone had brought him hyacinths, but it must have been weeks or months ago because they’d dried completely and drooped hopelessly into a sea of dead petals.
Strange. The grave was so close to the house. Why wouldn’t anybody visit? Were they this resentful about the will?
I brushed the petals onto the ground.
“Well, I’m finally here,” I said, “trying to sort out the mess you left.” I looked around me. The tree branches seem to lean over me to listen. “I wish you wouldn’t have raised such greedy children. Well, one greedy child.”
I ran my fingers over my father’s engraved name.
“Not only greedy, but evil.” That was the only adjective I could use to describe what they’d done to Cristóbal.
I’d been thinking about my siblings last night. Catalina seemed incapable of any bad deeds. So she smoked. That only meant she wasn’t perfect, or the town’s saint, like everybody claimed, but simply human and as such, flawed. Alberto, well, why would he want to kill me when he’d renounced his fortune? And besides, why would he need money in the seminary? Unless he was planning to get out. I couldn’t help but remember our conversation about good vs. evil. Was there something I wasn’t seeing? So far, the only person who seemed capable of harm was Angélica. After all, she had a snake in her room; a snake who happened to find its way to my bed.
But there was a hole in this theory. Nothing seemed to link Angélica to Franco or the check. The only thing remotely interesting in her drawer had been the photograph of an unknown girl.
“Ay, Papá. Your Angélica is something else, isn’t she?”
I stood up, dusting the dirt from my trousers. I was not far from Franco’s house. It would probably take me about five minutes to get there. I plucked a daisy from the ground and set it on my father’s grave.
The burned-out house was larger than I remembered. There was no front door so I just stepped inside. It was hard to determine what I was looking at. Pieces of wood that must have belonged to the ceiling or a wall had collapsed on the floor and were now charred. Mountains of rubble filled what might have been, at one point, a parlor. The staircase was mostly gone, but surprisingly, the dining room was intact—an oval table with four chairs sat in the center of the room. It was incredible that among this destruction there were still discernable objects. Why hadn’t Soledad and her son claimed some of these things? Scattered across the kitchen floor were broken ceramic cups, tarnished pots, and silverware. The wall next to the stove was stained with smoke and there was a hole carved out of the wood.
I spotted the corner of a golden tin box inside the hole. It was stuck with a piece of brick that had fallen on top, but with some effort, I slid it out. The lid was somewhat mangled. I removed it. Inside was a notebook and some pencils. I looked through the pages. It seemed to be a calligraphy or spelling notebook, as there were simple words and phrases repeated throughout. I skimmed through the pages until something caught my attention: a name written with clear penmanship.
Catalina is my best friend.
The sentence was repeated several times across the page. Catalina? Franco’s friend? I couldn’t imagine a friendship between two more discordant people. She was so pretty and sweet, a lady. And Franco, a brute, a man with no morals willing to kill a stranger for money.