“Crap.” I tie the bag off and set it down, then get on the floor to pick up the things that fell out, pieces of crumpled paper, a paper cup of what was once coffee. I reach my arm under the desk to grab whatever it is that rolled there. When my fingers close around it, I pull my arm out, and I’m surprised to find lipstick.

I look at it. It’s a smooth matte-black tube, simple, like any hundreds of this particular brand that I recognize. And I can’t help but pull the lid off and twist it so I can see the lipstick itself.

Leaving everything, I get up and go into the living room where I have a little more light to study it. To double-check.

It’s just a red lipstick. But I turn it over and read the name of this particular shade. Russian Red.

It’s the shade I wore at the gala.

I find my hands are trembling as I feel for the phone in my pocket, but when I take it out, I remember it’s out of charge. And I remember Abel’s warning to stay inside the house.

But I make my way to the door anyway and punch in the code. Pulling it open, I grab my car keys from the table beside the door before going outside. I fumble with the lock, my hands are shaking, but I get the door open and slip into the driver’s seat. I put the lipstick down and start the car, my door still open as I let it run and feel for the charger cable that’s disappeared somewhere under the passenger seat. It’s still plugged into the power outlet, so I find it and tug it out, then plug the phone in and wait. And while I wait, I look at that lipstick again. It’s used but hardly. And my mind is running with an idea, but it makes no sense. None.

A few minutes later, the phone switches on, and I dial Abel’s number. It rings and rings, then goes to voicemail, so I disconnect and try again. I catch my reflection in the rearview mirror. The light is on since the door is still open. I should probably close it, but Abel answers then.

“I told you not to call me again.”

“Whose lipstick is in the house?”

“What?”

“The lipstick. Whose is it?”

“What the fuck are you talking about?” he asks but only after a pause I might have missed if I wasn’t paying attention.

“Abel, the lipstick. It’s the same brand and shade I wore to the gala. The same shade the woman who pretended to be me wore when she tried to kill my husband.” God. To say the words is still unreal. Someone tried to murder Santiago. And what I’m holding in my hand…no. No. It can’t be.