Tita Rosa nodded grimly.

“Did you check with Jim?” I asked.

“Carmi’s calling him.” Tita Rosa’s face crumpled in confusion. “This is why Filipinos should not go to America. It deranges them. Why would Laird go to Mindanao?”

I took the seat on the opposite side of the desk. “Right now, you have to stop worrying and do what you’re good at.”

“What can I do, at this age?” She held my gaze with her eyes, which were wise but, I now noticed, were growing milky with cataracts.

“This,” I said. I took the rosary beads from the corner of the tabletop and poured them into her hands. “It’s Friday. Sorrowful Mysteries.”

She looked at the beads but did not move. She was really worried. I took the rosary back from her. “All right, Tita, I’ll start. Agony in the Garden.” And I launched into the first Our Father.

Wednesday evening came and there was still no word on Laird. We were gathered at my tita Rosa’s with Tito Ben and Tita Dom for our traditional post-Mass meal, and despite the fact that my aunt’s cook had made kare kare, a family favorite, the mood was subdued.

“I knew something was wrong when Laird didn’t show up for the play,” said Tita Dom. “I knew it.”

We were mostly quiet through dinner. Tito Ben was wearing shorts, which I found unusual, and when I questioned him about it, he said something cryptic about getting old and going to the bathroom being difficult in pants. Tito Iñigo was sitting by his leg, looking a touch guilty.

I asked, “What did Remi say Laird was doing in Mindanao?”

“I don’t know. Visiting some new friends. Seeing the Philippines. Laird is not one for sharing.” My tita Rosa shook her head. “Remi said he was so reserved, always reading in his room or insisting on taking a taxi and not the driver. She didn’t know what he was doing all the time, and he made it hard to ask.” She pushed her plate, half the food uneaten, to the center of table. “He was like an American. She couldn’t ask him things.”

Late that evening, as I was getting ready for bed, I got a call. It was José Martin. I’d been wondering when he was going to get back to me.

“Ting,” he said. “I don’t have anything for you. I don’t know anyone at the Telegraph. You know that’s Gumboc’s paper.”

“It was worth a shot.” I sighed. “Look, can you keep an eye out? I’m not close to Laird Bontotot, but he is a relative, and my tita’s worried. This feels like it could be developing into a news story.”

“Yeah, well, that is definitely a possibility.”

“Can you let me know?”

“You scratch my back . . .”

This surprised me. “What could I possibly have that you might want?”