Kiki lunges around the desk, knocking her hip into its sharp corner. A stack of Don Carlos’s papers flutter to the ground in her wake. She falls to her knees in front of the fire and I realize what she’s going to do a second before she does it.

“Kiki, don’t—”

She thrusts her hand into the fire, grasping for the papers. I lurch forward, grabbing her shoulder and hauling her back. We tumble backwards onto the floor.

“What are you doing?” Kiki tries to wrestle free of my hold. “We have to—That’s all we have!”

“Kiki, stop.” I press my face into the crown of her head, squeezing my eyes shut. “You have to stop.”

The corners of the paper blacken and curl as the note catches fire.

I hold her as we watch our last hope burn.

“We’ll find something else,” I whisper into her hair so only she can hear. Her father need not listen to this. His pain is too great and terrible. It has consumed him so thoroughly he cannot see past it. But I can. I must. For her sake. And mine. “We’ll find something else.”

And then I do something else, make another, even greater mistake than coming into this room in the first place. I make a promise I don’t know if I can keep.

“We’ll find out who did this, Kiki. I swear it.”

Kiki

“Are you sure you’re ready for this?”

I pause, the boot halfway up my calf. The leather is so soft from wear that I know I should probably invest in a new pair soon. But I like my boots. They’re perfectly broken in, molded to my feet as if the Almighty himself had crafted them just for me. My thumbs rub into the grain, feeling the ridges and bumps of old wrinkles.

It’s easier to focus on the boots and not Ana’s question.

Am I ready?

I’m not. But I need to be. I want answers. And I am not going to find them here, quivering under my blankets like some helpless, grief-stricken maiden. I need to do something to shake the sight of my father casting Alejandro’s letters into the fire. Of the look on his face when I hurled the very worst words I could into his face. Of the stench of burning paper. The acrid smoke. The crackling flame.

“Yes,” I lie.

It had been easier to feel the fiery resolve of intention earlier in the day, when my father’s refusal to accept what was right in front of him was still raw. But now I feel that resolve beginning to crack and splinter. It’s not that I don’t want to do this. I just don’t know if I can. Not the way I want to. Not the way Alejandro deserves.