“You make her sound like such a martyr. She’s not some saint you learned about in nursery school. She took you from me, Cat! Not the other way around.” My mother’s chest is heaving and her neck is blotchy, like she’s allergic to confrontation.

“Bullshit.”

“Catia, do not speak—”

“Bullshit!” I slam my hand on the table. “Why were you the one driving away then? Huh?”

“Fine.” She seethes. “You want proof? I’ll get you proof.” She darts into her bedroom and back out again, slamming a stack of papers against the table in front of me. They slide across the surface like an open fan.

“What are these?” I ask, picking up the top one. It’s a pamphlet, unfolded and smoothed flat. The top line reads THERE IS HOPE in red block letters. Beneath that, a wine stain of a logo and then the line, Gamblers Anonymous.

“The agent found them hidden in your grandmother’s desk. I asked her to send me anything that might explain where the money went in that account you talked about. This pretty much says it all.” She crosses her arms, defiant.

My mind spins, and I drop the paper like it’s on fire. There are signs plastered all over Louisiana with hotline numbers and warning signs and words of encouragement. Almost as many signs as there are machines. It’s not just the casinos. They’re in every bar, half the motels, truck stops, and gas stations. But the image of Moony sidling up to one of those gaming machines, her face alight with bright colors as she plays with my future, is so surreal it turns my stomach. I think of how much she loved bingo and her game shows. And I remember times when I would get home from school and she wasn’t there. She’d come in later, claiming she was at the store or running errands, but more than once there’d be no groceries. I feel sick.

My mother tugs at the lapels of her robe, clutching them over her chest in a tight fist. “We’re leaving tomorrow morning for me to sign some papers. Hopefully we’ll be back by sundown.”

“I have work tomorrow,” I say, backing up from the fan of pamphlets and information sheets before me.

“Find someone to take your shift. If you want your grandmother’s ashes, you’ll be ready to leave by seven.”

Suddenly, betraying Moony’s final wishes doesn’t seem so wrong. She was betraying me all along.

The car smells of old smoke from our last ride together, turning my empty stomach. I got up on my own, dressed in jeans and an oversized T-shirt for road-trip comfort, and tucked myself into the passenger seat without speaking a word. As we roll out of New Orleans, I reread Daniel’s text from last night.

I’ll cover for you. This is your chance. Find some answers.