“Anyway, like I said before, Tom’s friends and colleagues refuse to do interviews, divulge any sort of information. Something to do with his company. I don’t think any producer wants to touch that, from a legal standpoint. And of course, there’s always the possibility of doing something just about the crime, but the intrigue won’t be there. Everyone wants to know all about Odilie’s and Tom’s inner lives. How they met, what his childhood was really like. But no one can answer any of it. It’s like Odilie stopped confiding in anyone once she met him.”

I take a sip of the mezcal. It is good, earthy and tart on the tongue, the heat of it a balm down my throat. “How about her friends? The ones who planned the ceremony?”

Page reaches for the mezcal, stops herself, her hand flickering away from the long-necked, agave-adorned bottle. “If they know anything, no one will say.” She finally fingers the bottle, pours herself a shot. “I had to empty out their house. And I kept looking for something—a diary, an album of photographs, anything that would give a hint of what Odilie was doing, was thinking. But there was nothing.” She sips the mezcal this time, offers me more and I refuse.

“Has anyone tried reaching out to Tom’s family?” I say, staring through the bottom of my glass, to the marble floor tiles below.

“Everyone’s dead. Well, he has a brother, but he’s off somewhere, down in Central America doing God knows what. I’m not even sure there was a funeral held for him.” She shrugs. “I mean, maybe there was, organized by his friends or company or something, but of course I wouldn’t know.” She sighs, takes another sip of her drink, stares at me, the room dimly lit, her eyes reflecting the flickering candle she’s set between us. Eyes on fire.

“But I want to know about Odilie.” Her voice, it’s suddenly solid, a glass pane without any fissures, like she hasn’t drunk a single ounce of alcohol. “I want to know about her life here, who she was, what she did, where she went.” She reaches out to me, her fingers dancing toward my arm, not quite grazing the skin, square-cut nails, flecks of old polish creasing the cuticles. “I barely knew my sister while she was alive and now she’s not and I don’t know who I missed. I want to know who she was. I want to know what’s been left unsaid.” She pauses, stops her fingers’ dance. “You can help me.”

I startle, the liquor flooding to the tip of my throat. “Help you?”