I sat down, clutching a glass of whiskey. What could she want to talk to me about? She’d never showed much interest in me. She had at most offered me food and drink and asked if my accommodations were to my liking. But that was about it. We’d never had a regular conversation, an exchange of ideas.

“Where is Doña Catalina?” I asked by means of breaking our cumbersome silence.

“Sewing. She has to finish our dresses for next week.”

“The town’s festivities?”

“Yes.”

She took a sip of wine.

“Don Cristóbal, I’d like to thank you for your help during that . . . unpleasant episode with Don Fernando today.” Somewhat flustered, she explained that he’d been her fiancé for a brief time, but after the breakup, relations with the family had turned sour. She mentioned the fencing issues, the lawsuits, and the problem with the German client.

After her long explanation, she leaned forward. “It was touching to see the way you attempted to defend us, but why did you do it?”

Us? The last person on my mind had been Angélica. I just couldn’t stand to see him beating Martin.

“It’s what my wife would’ve wanted,” I said. “She had a strong sense of justice.”

In a way, I was not lying.

Angélica’s face lit up. “Tell me about her, about my sister.”

It was so rare to hear her call me “sister.” She always referred to me as María Purificación, that very formal name I despised especially when pronounced in that sanctimonious tone. It reminded me of the times my school teachers had scolded me for being bad (“Niña María Purificación, stop distracting your classmates.”). But today, Angélica had used her sweetest tone to call me “sister.” With that angelic expression on her face, it was hard to believe she would ever plot to hurt anyone, especially her own flesh and blood.

What was happening to me? At times like this, it was hard to sustain my anger. What if none of my siblings had ordered Franco to kill me? What if it had been someone else, someone I didn’t even know about? But no, I shouldn’t continue with that line of thought. I didn’t want to face the possibility of what that meant about me, about my actions.

“What would you like to know?” I tasted the whiskey which, oddly, was growing on me.

“Did she ever talk about us? Was she happy to come?” Her eyelashes were thick, her eyes of an unusual transparency.

“She didn’t know about you,” I said honestly. “Your father never told her he had a new family.”