She had been keeping me alive in a marriage to a man who had paid to end me, keeping me generous to a sister who was in my bed, keeping me dutiful to a mother pricing my coffin.

She was of no more use to me.

What was left, when she was gone, was the one who built things — who documented, who verified, who proved what happened and when.

And that woman was not afraid of Emiliano at all.

She was, if anything, a little sorry for him, the way you feel toward someone who has picked a fight he cannot begin to understand the size of.

Chapter 5 — What They Would Never Find