He shook his head. “You sound like dynamite right now, to be blunt. I don’t want you leading some menace to her doorstep. She fled her old apartment because someone was asking after her. Remember? You told me that yourself, and she confirms it.”

I ate a slice of my cold pizza. “What if they weren’t from INS or the state? What if they were the people who killed Nicola, come to make sure she hadn’t talked to her mother? No matter how much Abuelita Mercedes denied having heard from Nicola, they’d never believe her. Have you asked her yourself? If Nicola talked to her before she died, I mean?”

Morrell’s lips twisted in a half smile. “Bryant Vishnikov warned me that you’d wear me out if I got involved with you. No, I haven’t asked her that, and yes, I’ll make time to get back to Señora Mercedes in the next day or two.”

“Did Vishnikov tell you I’d consulted him about you as well? He didn’t give me a character reading, though.”

“Maybe there’s nothing people need to be warned about when they meet me,” he said with a sly smile.

“Or maybe too much to be covered in a single phrase. What does the C.L. stand for?”

“Good grief. Have you really been investigating me? I didn’t think any record still existed of those initials. My parents didn’t speak English, and they longed for America as for the promised land. They named me in the hopes I’d fit in when we finally got here and instead gave me something that got me beat up regularly. It would have hurt their feelings if I’d changed my name, so I use only my surname. Think of me as someone like Madonna or Prince.”

I imagined lying in bed with him, whispering “Morrell” instead of—what name could have been that embarrassing? Maybe they’d named him for name brands, like Clorox and Lysol. I blushed at my fantasy and hurried back to business.

The list of things that needed doing depressed me. I was like a tetherball, gyrating erratically from one side to another, depending on who was punching me. My physical stamina was limited and my emotional energy was not much greater.