“No, I’m talking about them. When I said I’d given you a straight answer, I did. Tabitha’s dead, Eric. So is Santa Muerte. Things didn’t work out the way they were supposed to and instead of having one or the other, there’s both and neither. Who they were has made me. I have their memories, their desires, their fears. I’m both of them and neither of them at the same time. I have pieces of their personalities in me, but I’m not them. I’m something brand new.”

It starts to sink in that I’m talking to a complete stranger, a total unknown. Is she the Machiavellian goddess who orchestrated a five-hundred-year long con to get out of Mictlan? Or is she the woman who got taken in by it?

“La Reine est mort, vive La Reine?”

“Something like that, yes.”

“So why the Lotería cards? El Valiente, La Corazon, the others? Those aren’t random. Those are the cards Tabitha drew from her deck in Tepito. They’re a message, but I don’t understand what. You’re not Tabitha and we don’t have a connection. You said it yourself, you’re brand new. What fucked up head game are you trying to play?”

“Let me ask you a question,” she says. “Why are you still wearing the ring?”

I’ve been asking myself that same question for months. I can take it off whenever I want now. So why haven’t I? I can feel the energy in it, the connection to Santa Muerte. Was I holding out hope that Tabitha had somehow taken her place? Is wanting a connection with someone who understands what I saw in Mictlan, who understands how it works, such a powerful draw that I’d ignore her own role in Santa Muerte’s plan, or my sister’s death, even if she was as much a victim of Santa Muerte as anyone else? It’s stupid and fucked up, I know, but I think the answer is yes.

I felt like an ass before, and now that I know I was holding out hope for someone who doesn’t exist anymore, that there’s somebody else sitting in her place, I feel like an even bigger ass. This is how things go to shit. We let our feelings get in the way, make shit up about other people whether we know we’re doing it or not.

“It’s a reminder that it was a huge mistake and to never let it happen again,” I say. “Like a scar, or herpes.” She looks at me, and for a moment I can see Santa Muerte in those eyes, the pupils pulling me in, swallowing me up.