I had been called to the dining room to report any knowledge I had to the Bontotots. My family presented me as a person with connections to other journalists, someone who might know something, but I was as in the dark as a person could be. We had all considered that Laird might have been kidnapped by Abu Sayyaf, but the truth is none of us had believed it.

The Bontotots were at my aunt’s house because they were underfoot in Tita Remi’s house. My aunt had volunteered to help any way she could and this was the responsibility that had fallen to her: to keep the Bontotots distracted so that Tita Remi’s family could focus on the investigation. Was it a kindness that Laird’s mother turned out to be dead? That his father, Richard, seemed as emotionally ill-equipped as I was? Crystal, his second wife, was a weepy blonde who seemed tailored for disaster, and I wondered if her marriage to Laird’s father was a dress rehearsal for future sorrow. I suspected from his clothes and manners that Richard was a laborer of some sort, but he knew—confronted with our houses and servants and general ease greased with privilege—to keep this to himself. He was a “businessman” who lived in Los Angeles, as joyless as Laird, narrow eyed, and mean looking. Crystal was oblivious to Manila’s Byzantine class structure and code of behavior. She staved off waves of tears with sweets, mostly biko, which we kept in steady supply at my tita Rosa’s, and whatever else was available to eat. We did keep offering the food, but she really ought to have occasionally refused, as it was considered proper to do so. I didn’t disdain this response to stress, although I felt bad for the woman because other members of my family were less understanding. Or maybe my aunts and cousins were just desperate for something funny, and this woman’s impressive eating provided that. Life went on behind the scenes, and that was real, if everything else seemed less so.

My tita Rosa was the only member of our family skilled in small talk, and this she was deploying in an expert way, the result of close to a century of practice. Weather exhausted, Richard and I looked on as the conversation turned to Tito Iñigo. Crystal was wondering what sort of dog he was, to which my aunt replied that he was a native dog, even though he was clearly mostly Chihuahua. I sat in silence, unable to think of what might engage Laird’s father, who was inhaling and exhaling in a regular, loud, and performative way. The ancient fan made its transit hitting each spot with a beam of focused cool, rustling the flowers on the table, blowing my hair across my eyes.

“Richard,” I said. “Do you smoke? Would you like to join me outside for a cigarette?”