Without warning, she whips her head back and hurls spit in his face and then slowly curls her lips into a poisonous smile.

“I will do the same to your grave. Enjoy your death, you miserable bastard. You’ve earned it.”

When she returns to me, taking note of the surprise on my face, she offers the slightest of nods, and I escort her back down the stairs, returning her to Judge who’s waiting at the bottom. He seems to be hypervigilant this evening, his eyes scanning her face through the mask. Looking for signs of distress. Weakness. Something I can’t quite identify.

We move through the parting crowd together, rejoining the other families at the back. A gong sounds, and the guards take their positions at the gallows. The women all turn their backs, including Mercedes, while the men watch on.

I squeeze my sister’s hand as the guard at the top of the platform makes his preparations, adjusting the noose on Abel’s neck and checking the ropes on his ankles and wrists. He is not offered a bag for his head. Tonight, we will all witness the gruesome sight of his writhing face until nothing is left but his bulging eyes and gaping mouth.

His transgressions are read against him one final time, the names of the dead called out before the guard steps to the side and silence settles over the crowd. There is a restlessness in these final moments as I watch him, and strangely enough, it is my face he seeks in the crowd. His eyes fall on me, face tight, with my final words undoubtedly lingering in his thoughts.

He knows them to be true.

It is the last peaceful thought I have before the guard pulls the lever, and the floor beneath Abel drops out, his body falling through, swinging wildly as he gurgles for a few brief moments. Fleeting panic is the last earthly expression he wears on the mask he called a face. And then slowly, it fades to nothing.

A blank slate.

A man who never was.

“Is it done?” Mercedes whispers over the sound of the creaking rope.

“It is done,” I answer solemnly.

“Eli?” My voice is gruff, barely audible behind him.

He turns slowly from his pew in the chapel, and I’m not certain how long he’s been here, alone in the darkness. Waiting for the news of his son’s death. The confirmation since he was unable to bear it himself.

Again, it hits me how difficult this must have been for him, and the respect I once had for him shines brighter than it ever did.

“Santiago,” he murmurs, dragging a tremulous hand over his white hair as he rises. “I suppose you have come to deliver the news.”

“No.” I lift my jaw, struggling to get the words out. “I came to tell you… thank you.”