“Accident, yes,” she says, but the emphasis she puts on the word accident makes me wonder what she thinks. “It killed her too, if you ask me. She passed away shortly after she returned to Barcelona. I don’t doubt it was the grief, God bless the poor woman.”

The official reports had said a gas leak led to the explosion.

“Lost her husband and one of her sons in one night and the remaining son, well, he was different after.”

“The way he looked you mean?” Did his mother abandon him for his scars?

“No, those scars, they were terrible, certainly, but what it did to him inside. She tried, his mother, but it was too hard. You see—”

“Are you gossiping about my brother?”

We both turn, startled to find Mercedes slink out from one of those dark corridors. She looks stunning, like the last time I’d seen her. Dressed in a tight-fitting red dress that sets off her olive skin, black hair and eyes, her makeup is flawless and she’s wearing five-inch heels more appropriate for evening and more jewelry than I’m pretty sure my mom, sisters, and I own all together.

“I don’t think Santi would like to hear his wife was gossiping with the help.” She looks from me to Antonia, who lowers her gaze and wrings her hands. “I don’t recall him telling you to let her out, Antonia.”

“I have permission to be out of my room today,” I say, butting in, not liking Mercedes’s tone but also hating what I just said. I sound like a child.

“He gave you permission, did he?” She grins, eyebrows raised.

My hands fist at my sides as my blood begins to boil.

“There was no reason to keep her locked in that room,” Antonia says. I wonder if she feels my rage.

“That’s not your place to say, is it?”

“Not yours either, ma’am. Your brother’s made it clear I’m to look after his wife.”

Mercedes turns her sour expression to me. “Hmm. Did he? Well. I’ll take it from here, Antonia. You can go back to your kitchen.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Antonia says, voice tight.

I’m embarrassed for the older woman as she glances at me with a nod of acknowledgment before disappearing toward the kitchen.

“We weren’t gossiping,” I say, not wanting to get Antonia into trouble.

“No, I’m sure you weren’t. Is that what you’re wearing?”

I look down at my pale blue cashmere sweater and jeans. Mercedes is a bully. She reminds me of Maria Chambers. Entitled and rich and probably never been taught right from wrong. Never been told no.

“Yes, your brother bought it for me,” I say. “We’re going to the hospital, not a fashion show. Is that what you’re wearing?”

Distaste curls her lip, and she walks past me.