The ashes in her cigarette grew long and thin. I was desperate for her to either take a drag or flip the ashes on the glass ashtray sitting on her night table. But she didn’t do either. Instead, she squashed her cigarette against the ashtray’s surface.

“Is that Fortunata y Jacinta?” I pointed at a book on the bed. I didn’t say it, but I was astounded that she’d be reading such a scandalous novel.

Her cheeks flushed. “I found it among my mother’s things.” She shrugged. “It’s just a silly love story.”

I was familiar with the work of Benito Pérez Galdós. My Cristóbal breathed Spanish literature.

I sat next to her on the bed. “A tragic one.”

“Yes. But there’s beauty in tragedy,” she said. “Don’t you think?”

I remembered Cristóbal. Nothing beautiful about that.

“Not in real life.”

“I’m sorry. That was insensitive of me with the recent passing of my . . . my sister.” She picked up her fan from the table. Her embroidered collar was so high it must have choked her in this heat. “Tell me about her, about Purificación.”

She was very personable, this sister of mine, her eyes looked at me with kindness and her voice carried concern and understanding. There was no possibility that she sent Franco to kill me, none whatsoever.

But I’d caught her smoking, which meant she hid things from others. She had flaws, just like the rest of us, except that nobody in town knew it.

Or maybe they did.

“Is it true that she had a chocolate store?”

“Yes.” My voice cracked a little, thinking about the sunny salon where people enjoyed the delicacies La Cordobesa and I prepared. How simple my life was back then.

“My father was so proud of her.”

“He was?”

“Yes, he always told Angélica and me that we should be more like her, but neither one of us ever showed any interest in the business.”

Then why, oh why, did they want me gone? We could’ve all worked for a common goal, we could’ve continued with my father’s legacy together. But it seemed like one of them was too greedy for that. Or maybe both were.

“I was so sorry about her passing. I wish I could’ve met her,” she said.

Her words stung. They made me feel guilty, dirty about the way I was deceiving her. Catalina was a good person. She didn’t deserve this. I wanted to tell her the truth so badly. Would she hate me if I did?

“I’m sure she would’ve liked to know you, too,” I said.

“What did she look like? Anything like us?”