“It was surprisingly quiet and I wrongly assumed there was no one inside, so I just stood there, perplexed. I cried out for help, hoping some of the workers would hear me and come, but for a while nobody did.” Her eyes watered. “If only I hadn’t waited there like a ghost, things might have turned different. After a moment, I heard some coughing from inside, and Franco’s voice calling out for my husband. I remember standing there, wondering if I’d heard right. Why would Pedro be at home at that time of the day? He usually worked until six. And Franco had said he had something to do. When I was certain that it was Franco, I barged inside. There were flames all over the living room and the ceiling. I wrapped myself with the tablecloth and went upstairs, calling out Franco’s name.”

Soledad’s gaze was lost in a mysterious spot behind my head.

“I found Franco in the hallway. He was trying to put the fire out with a blanket. A beam had fallen and was blocking the way to my bedroom. I could see Pedro stuck underneath the beam. He was unconscious, probably dead already.” Her voice cracked. “Franco kept calling his father, but there was nothing to do. I told him we needed to get out before the flames caught us. And that was when another beam fell on top of us. Fortunately, some workers had come to our rescue and dragged us out. But there was nothing anyone could do for Pedro.” She dried the tears from her cheeks. “The workers told me later that he’d come home early because he’d been running a fever and said he was going to take a nap.” She set her hand on her collarbone, right on her scar. In a strange way, I felt sorry for Franco. I wondered if this tragedy shaped him into a harsh man capable of killing a stranger without a second thought. Or had he always been bad?

“Do you know what caused the fire?” I asked.

“Not for sure, but I think it had to do with Don Fernando.”

“Don Fernando del Río?”

“You know him?”

“I met him briefly at La Puri. I’m a friend of the Lafont family.”

“Well, Don Fernando wanted Pedro to do something for him.” She rested her palms on the table’s surface. There was a scar on one of her hands. “But it didn’t work out.”

“What did he want him to do?”

“Oh, I’ve said too much already. It has nothing to do with Franco anyway.”