Flix felt a sudden rush of anxiety. He had to stop himself from leaning toward her; he did not want to alarm her. “It’s beautiful, no? Do you like it? It comes from your mother with love.” That last part was untrue. St. Vincent had enjoined Flix from telling his sister anything about her daughter other than that she was alive and well. Marilena had given the heirloom to him years ago in hopes that it would encourage him to get married.

“My mother never loved me,” Lucy said without taking her eyes from the cameo.

Flix felt that sick feeling in the pit of his stomach again. His heart broke, both for his sister and for his niece.

“What has happened to you, Lucy?” The question was out of his mouth before he could stop it. He was sure he’d made a terrible mistake, that she would stand up and walk away, but he was wrong.

She looked up at him. Her coffee-colored eyes were clear as a spring brook, and there was an animation behind them, the sign of a mind at work without being dulled insensate by chemical cocktails.

“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you, Tío.”

Tío. She called him Uncle. “I want to know, guapa. Why don’t you try me?”

This produced in her the barest hint of a smile. “I remember how you used to call me guapa.”

“Because that’s what you always were to me—what you still are—beautiful.”

“Yes, well—” her eyes clouded over, the hint of a smile fleeing for its life, “nothing beautiful happened to me.”

“Tell me.”

“What’s wrong with your right shoulder, Tío?”

He smiled inwardly; it was a good sign that she was noticing things outside herself. “I was shot.”

“Shot?!” She was clearly shocked. “Why?”

“I was overseas, in a war zone. It’s part of my job.”

“To get shot?”

“Possibly, but hopefully not. This time something went wrong.”

“You’re okay?”

“I’m fine, guapa. Really. I’m at the end of rehab. I’ll be deployed within a day or so.”

“For how long?”

“Not long. These deployments are usually forty-eight hours or so.” Short but intense, he thought. “When I get back I’ll take you out of here. We’ll go together to see your mother.”

“No!” Lucy closed the cameo in her fist. “I don’t want to see her.”

“But why not?”

Lucy looked away. The fist enclosing the cameo trembled perceptibly.

“But, guapa, she loves you.”

Lucy’s head swung back, and she looked at him with eyes brimming with tears. “Did you ever ask yourself why I ran away?”

“You fell into a bad crowd, got hooked on drugs, and—”

“¡Basta!” she cried. Enough! “She told you that.”

“Yes.”