Don Chan held his walking cane like a weapon, and with caution, moved into each room, drawing open the curtains, hoping there was someone outside who would hear him yell for help if needed.

—Qué estúpida. She’ll be in debt forever, so a thief could take it. Don Chan talked to the windows, the walls riddled with old photographs, the velvety pillows that crowded the sofa bought on credit. He remembered his late wife’s famous words, —Te dan un ala y te quitan el corazón. Banks gave people credit who then worked, to pay it back, their entire lives. The anger built up inside him and pushed back the fear propelled by the unlocked door of his apartment, the possible intruder. He would much rather be angry than scared. At least anger made him act.

He contemplated turning on the lights. But he would rather not see the clutter that filled the living room. The sound of the television in Dallas’s room accompanied him. He was sitting in an apartment whose walls filled him with painful memories and fear of leaving the house, his fear that someone would break in to take what, his life? What leads a person to the kind of place where no matter how much he racked his brain, he had no answers? Don Chan wished he could run. In his mind, running was possible and more. But his body wouldn’t let him. The walls he so much despised were the walls that protected him. He preferred the lock on the door.

—Goddamn it, he said. And stood still and listened. But nothing moved, except for the floorboards vibrating from the bass of the music playing downstairs. And the door? Could he have forgotten to lock it? He couldn’t admit that to anyone, especially Esperanza. If he did, they wouldn’t trust him to be alone, and he didn’t need anyone watching over him.

He stood in the dark room wondering where Santo was. He had been missing for weeks. Don Chan trespassed into Esperanza’s room and became nauseous with the smell of her perfume. A woman who wore that much perfume was hiding something.

Don Chan searched through Esperanza’s drawers, pulling out her makeup, hair brushes, blouses. Her closet was bursting at the seams with her collection of clothes and shoes. Stacked up in piles were things she had ordered and still had not taken out of their boxes.

—How many things did she need? he said out loud. He found Santo’s old wallet and took it with him. It contained a photograph of when he was a child. He looked over at Esperanza’s small altar behind the door and wiped off the dust on the top of the white candle.

Don Chan found the newspaper clippings of Santo’s murder. He reread them. He looked at the photo and didn’t want to recognize him.

—No, no it can’t be, Don Chan said, and sorrow came over him as if years hadn’t passed.

—Damn you, for killing my son, he said, and wept, not knowing who to blame anymore. He rubbed the creases from the old newspaper. He staggered over to the hallway in the apartment entrance and replaced the photo of Jesus with the clipping.