I spared no expense for the theatrics of Eli's fake death. There is even a jazz band leading the way, playing the somber traditional funeral music well-known throughout New Orleans. We walk behind the hearse into the cemetery, where the empty coffin is eventually deposited into a tomb.

Throughout the day, I catch myself looking around at the other mourners, wondering which of them are Abel's men. My own security is well disguised among them, taking notes of every face, every attendee. But Abel would know that, regardless of how well they blend in. Will he be convinced by the charade? Will any of this be worth it in the end?

When the tomb is sealed shut, the music changes to a more upbeat tune, and then the procession relocates to the IVI compound for the reception. The day seems to be dragging on, and it's all I can do to stand at my wife's side while she ignores me, greeting mourners with tear-filled eyes.

She speaks to the guests for two hours as they tell stories about her father before she starts to fade into exhaustion, and I lean in to whisper in her ear.

"It's time to get you home now."

She shakes her head in refusal, but staggers, nearly collapsing into me before I grab her arm and hold her upright.

Unwittingly, she has done her part. She has grieved publicly for all to see. But at what cost? I have never hated myself more than I do when I pull her tired body against mine, forcing her chin up so she must look at me.

"It's time to get you home, angel. There is something you must see."

Her face softens a fraction before she shakes her head, stubbornly refusing to bend.

"The celebration of my father's life isn't over yet. You can go if you want, but I'm not leaving."

"Ivy." My voice is a warning and a plea. If I could just get her home, she would understand.

"I'm going to the bathroom." She yanks away from me. "Please just leave me alone."

29

Ivy

I’m gone before he can stop me, almost knocking someone over in my rush before I finally find a bathroom where I stand at the sink and take a few deep breaths.

I dressed in black lace from head to toe. Santiago chose it. I didn’t care what I wore. I was just grateful the veil was heavy enough that I could hide at least a little.

Eva sat beside me in our pew. My mother occupied the front pew across from ours dressed in a deep blue too-tight dress that accentuated her every curve. Her hat set at an angle, the veil purposely chosen to enhance, not to hide. Because she wasn’t grieving.

I don’t even really blame her. She was forced into this marriage. She was a gift to my father, whom she always considered beneath her.