“Did you tell him about the tax?”

“Of course. Three times.” Rosa smiled, a small hard smile I had never seen on her. “Claire, when you tell a person you have lost most of a fortune, they hear you protecting a fortune.

There is no way to say it that sounds true.”

And then the last piece, which she said without any weight at all:

“Marisol. My sister. I paid for her treatment in Guadalajara — good hospital, good doctors, everything. She died in November of that year anyway.”

“Rosa—”