He stares at her for a moment. Then he shakes his head, sighing long and weary, as if every passing second of this conversation is taking something out of him that he cannot spare. Her father can barely hold himself upright in his grief. I cannot blame him for not wanting to hear it.

With a trembling hand, he grips the silver head of his cane and pushes himself—painfully, slowly—to his feet. He shuffles the letters together into a neater pile gingerly, as if they were coated in poison that stung with every touch. “I know you’re hurting, Eustaquia, but this is no time for your fictions. This isn’t one of your novels.”

“But—”

“Enough!” His hands tighten on the letters, now more of a wad than a pile.

I flinch. Never have I heard this man raise his voice to his children. Not Alejandro. Not Kiki. Not even me. He is a temperate man, slow to anger and quick to forgive.

But now—now, he is different.

Dark smudges stain the skin beneath his eyes. His hair falls limply around his face, striped with grays that have multiplied since his son’s death. A sallow tint colors his skin. But the worst are his eyes, bloodshot and fatigued.

They are the eyes of a broken man.

Tugging on Kiki’s arm, I lean in to speak softly in her ear. “Kiki, let’s go. This isn’t helping—”

But my words go unheard. From her pocket, Kiki retrieves the ring she’d removed from Alejandro’s room. Slams it onto the desk.

“Look at this.”

“Eustaquia—”

“Look!”

And he does. He squints at first, like he doesn’t recognize it. But then, the shape triggers something in him, a memory. “Is this—”

“It was my mother’s ring. Your wife’s ring. He was going to give it to the girl he loved. He was going to marry her. That is not the action of a man who wants to take his own life.”

The breath leaves Don Carlos in a weak sputter. Those wizened jowls quiver. He opens his mouth. Closes it. Says nothing. Only shakes his head. “Eustaquia, mija—”

“Somebody murdered my brother. Your son. Don’t you care?”

I suck in a breath through my teeth. Everything goes still, as if the room itself was holding its breath. I thought he looked broken before, but now he is shattered. Utterly and completely.

“Alejandro is gone, mija.” His shoulders sag forward. He presses his fist against his forehead. “We have to let him go.”

He tightens his hand around the papers, crumpling them even further in his fist. His arm juts out toward the hearth and before I can understand what’s happening, Kiki shouts.

The fire.