Is that what this is about? Does he blame my father? Is he punishing me to punish him?

No. That makes no sense.

I push the blankets off and get up. I want to go to him. I want to sleep in the same bed as him and feel his arms around me.

I want to tell him I’m sorry I acted like a brat.

The house is quiet as I pad down the hallway to his room. Mercedes’s door is hanging at an odd angle. I don’t know which one she moved to, but no one has cleaned this one yet. I bypass hers and get to his. I knock lightly so if he’s asleep I won’t wake him up. I’ll just slip into bed beside him.

I turn the handle, grateful it’s not locked. But from the dim light in the hallway, I can see he’s not here. His bed is still made. He hasn’t slept in it. The clock by the bed tells me it’s past three in the morning. Is he still up?

I turn and head down the stairs to his office. It’s the only other place I can think he’d be. And I’m right. I know it before I even reach his door not only from the light coming from beneath it but from the melody streaming out. Something dark I recognize. Mozart’s Requiem. My father loved Mozart, and I remember this piece especially well. The haunting tune, the escalating soprano.

Without thinking, I let my feet carry me to his door, and this time, I don’t knock. I push it open, and Santiago’s gaze snaps up from what he’s doing. The volume is so high I can’t hear myself think, but from the candles on his desk, I can see how red his eyes are. It makes me wonder how much of the bottle of scotch that sits half-empty he consumed after dinner tonight. I don’t know all that he’s carrying, but it’s heavy. I see it. And I feel doubly guilty about pushing him earlier.

I walk inside and close the door behind me. I don’t say a word as I go to him. He drops the pencil into the notebook and lets it close as he pushes his seat back when I come around the desk. I pull my nightgown off. I’m not wearing anything underneath but the rosary, and I stand before him and let him look at me with his sanguine eyes and his sad skull face.

Something about the look in it breaks my heart a little. What was so terrible that he’s gone from the man driving the sports car too fast through dark, winding streets to this one? This broken man.