Nene watched as Santi leant over and kissed Renata’s temple, saw how the older woman nodded and dabbed at her eyes. This was the aftermath – the living with the pain. She had seen the final moments of Juan Esperanza’s life: the crack shot that had rung out, sending the birds from the trees and all of them to the ground; the slow-motion stagger as the dying man dropped from his upright position – noble and proud in life – to lie in the dirt until the big bright sky bleached out to nothing. Only a handful of people in this space had shared that experience and now they were here, like her, with him still. The horror of those few minutes had changed something inside her in ways she couldn’t yet fully understand and she would have to live with the guilt and the shame for the rest of her life. But it was those two people, sitting alone at the front, who would suffer most of all – more than Juan, or her, or the other men.

The girl finished singing and the priest began, his voice intoning solemnly to the hushed congregation. Nene didn’t hear what he said. Her attention was focused entirely on Santi, or rather the back of his head, her eyes scrutinizing every inflection, tilt, freeze. When finally their eyes met again, would she be able to read him still? As children she had been easily able to read his mind. He was as open as a book, she always used to laugh – all his hope, bravado, hunger, mischief, writ large in those limpid eyes his father had given him. But now, the prospect of meeting his gaze and the truth of what her family had done to his lingering between them made her chill. It was crazy even to have come here. One word and he could betray her, and these dignified, unified mourners would become a lynch mob, out for Mendoza blood.

It was a risk she had been prepared to take. She had to believe that he too knew their friendship went deeper than names or associations; he had to know that what her brothers had done, she would never do, nor endorse, and she would risk her own safety to prove that to him for she was in his territory here. Now she was the vulnerable one.

She tried to partake in the service. When they prayed, she prayed harder than she ever had, her eyes squeezed shut, her hands blanched; and when they sang, she looked skywards, in case her Catholic sincerity could atone for her brothers’ barbarity. But her chance for redemption had a time limit and too soon the service was over, Santi leading the pall-bearers as they stood to take the weight of his father again.

Nene watched them get into position, steadying themselves and taking a breath before they began the slow walk back up the aisle. Her limbs were leaden, all sound drowned out by the rushing of blood through her head as he drew closer. Closer.