The police had been waiting for us at the docks of Cuemanco. We’d called them in advance when our phones regained reception. Pepper, Elizaveta, and Rosa were taken to the local police station, while Jesus and I were taken to a hospital. As soon as the doctor fixed up the stab wound in my side, detectives were in and out of my room to question me. None were very friendly. They kept trying to get me to confess to an alternate version of reality—Jesus’s version of reality—which led me to believe they were taking orders from someone deep in Jesus’s pocket. The scenario went like this: when I discovered Pita was cheating on me with Nitro, I flew into a jealous rage, slit Nitro’s throat, and shot Pita. The detectives told me Elizaveta and Rosa and Pepper had all confessed as much. I knew this was bullshit and pretty much told them to go fuck themselves. To be honest, though, for a day or two I had been worried they were somehow going to make the apocryphal accusations stick. But then the media caught wind of the story, and it became a national talking point that couldn’t be contained or manipulated regardless of Jesus’s money or connections. Consequently, he was arrested while still in his hospital bed and charged with the first-degree murder of Nitro, while I was allowed to walk free because Pita’s death was ultimately considered a justifiable homicide as it prevented greater harm to innocents, namely Elizaveta.

I didn’t attend Pita’s funeral. I wanted to, but I couldn’t. Her extended family and network of friends would have torn me apart. According to the rants they embarked on whenever a reporter put a microphone in front of them, I was the anti-Christ, a lying gringo, a spited lover hell bent on ruining Pita’s reputation and framing Jesus for a crime he didn’t commit.

I did, however, visit Pita’s gravesite a few days after she was interred. That’s when the floodgates opened and I finally grieved, crying until it hurt. I had loved Pita. We had a pretty amazing run until the last few months or so. She wasn’t evil. I didn’t blame her for the eleventh-hour betrayal. Jesus had manipulated her, just as he’d attempted to manipulate all of us.