“Daniel, this is complicated. Let me—”

“Is Alicia even your real name? Or did you borrow it from one of my father’s old memories as well?”

It was now Fermín who had his eyes fixed on her, as if he were facing a ghost from the past.

“Yes. My name is Alicia Gris. And I haven’t lied about who I am.”

“Only about everything else,” Daniel shot back.

Vargas kept silent, letting Alicia lead the conversation. She sighed, showing heartfelt embarrassment and guilt that he didn’t think for a second were genuine.

“During the investigation we came across evidence that Mauricio Valls had been acquainted with your mother, Doña Isabella, and with an old inmate of Montjuïc Prison called David Martín. The reason I involved you in the matter was I needed to eliminate suspicions and make sure the Sempere family hadn’t had anything to do with—”

“You must think I’m an idiot.” Daniel laughed bitterly, looking at Alicia with contempt. “And I must be, because until now I hadn’t realized what you were, Alicia, or whatever in hell your name is.”

“Daniel, please . . .”

“Don’t touch me.” Daniel stood and headed for the door.

Alicia sighed and dropped her face in her hands. She sought Fermín’s eyes in search of support, but the little man was gazing at her as if she were a pickpocket caught in the act.

“As a first attempt it looks rather lame to me,” he said. “I think you still owe us an explanation—even more so now, in view of the con you’ve tried to make us swallow. And that’s without counting the explanation you owe me. If you really are Alicia Gris.”

She smiled, dejected. “Don’t you remember me, Fermín?”

The little man was staring at her as if she were an apparition. “I no longer know what I remember. Have you come back from the dead?”

“I suppose you could say that.”

“And what for?”

“I’m only trying to protect you.”

“I would never have guessed.”

Alicia stood up and looked at Vargas.

“Go after him,” said the policeman. “I’ll take care of Lomana, and inform you as soon as I can.”

Alicia nodded and set off in search of Daniel. Fermín and Vargas were left alone, looking mutely at each other.

“I think you’re too hard on Alicia,” Vargas said.

“How long have you known her?” asked Fermín.

“A few days.”

“So you’re in a position to certify that she’s a living being, not a ghost?”

“I think she only looks like one.”

“She does drink like a sponge, there’s no denying that,” remarked Fermín.

“You’ve no idea.”

“A coffee with a dash of whisky before returning to the house of horrors?” Fermín offered.

Vargas accepted.

“Do you need company and logistical support to fish out the stiff?”

“Thanks, Fermín, but it’s best that I do this on my own.”

“Then tell me something, and please don’t lie to me—you and I have been through enough battles to know bullshit when we see it. Is it me, or is this business worse than it smells?”