When I jump out, I find my sensible shoes aren’t that sensible next to a riverbed. The hem of my skirt drags in the mud as I make my way to where the men have gathered in the beams of the headlights, under a cloud of cigarette smoke—thirty feet from the pile of tires that must be Angel’s Tower. They talk fast, insult each other, and glance at me with suspicious eyes. Then they dig.

It’s slow work. Shovelful by shovelful, they muddy shirts their wives will launder without question. Massimo limps around the pit, barking orders, champing to get down there but for the bullet wound in his leg. I watch from a safe distance, arms crossed, praying and praying.

If Dario lied and there’s nothing here, his value to the Colonia’s going to drop. They could kill him anyway. If our mother is here, my brother might end my husband’s life out of vengeance.

So I pray for a third thing. It’s not a yes or a no. A maybe, possibly, could be. Something that opens up new, unconsidered promises.

The hole is as wide as a man is tall and as deep to their knees when another car appears, adding to the halo of light. I shield my eyes as the driver gets out, then the passenger, who I recognize first by his swagger. Sergio Agosti.

“Hey, Massi.” Marco, the driver, I recognize by voice. “We’re gonna give a hand.”

He goes to the back of the car while Sergio approaches me.

“Taking a break, honeypants?”

“We have this, Sergio.” Massimo leans so hard on his cane it drives into the dirt. “It’s not your problem.”

“Like fuck it ain’t.”

“How’s that?” Massimo’s only a few inches taller than Sergio but seems to tower over him.

“I’ve done what you shoulda been doing all this time.” He backs up toward his car. “I got someone to verify what you find.” He turns and walks to the rear.

“Stay here,” Massimo says to me, then follows Sergio.

“Sure.”

Ever the liar, I’m right behind him.

Sergio opens the trunk.

“Jesus fucking Christ…” Massimo mutters.

I creep forward.

“Been lurking around right under your nose,” Sergio replies.

In the space between their bodies, I see inside the trunk.

A woman. Hands zip-tied. Mouth covered in silver duct tape. Eyes half-open as if she’s just coming back into consciousness.

Oria. Her left cheek’s blackened and her hair has a fist-sized nest on the top.

Her eyes open all the way.

No. She can’t see me and think I’ve betrayed her or Dario. She’s not careful when she’s upset. She’s a loose cannon.

“Holy shit!” A voice comes from the dig. “Massi!”

Sergio slams the trunk closed. They run to the hole, and I follow like a woman on a string, nearly tripping on my mud-wet skirt.