With a wry smile (infinitely better than the pity he was serving when I walked in), Santiago says, “And here I was thinking it was my devilishly good looks that kept you coming back.”

Ana leans back in her chair, her arm coming to rest on the back of mine. Her fingers tangle with my hair, tugging gently on the ends. She glances at me, a fond smirk on her face. “Sorry, Santiago. You’re not really my type.”

For a moment, I feel like myself again. But only for a moment.

“Well, what do you want to know?” There’s a tension to Santiago’s voice that I don’t quite like. He knows what I’m going to ask. He just doesn’t want me to ask it, for whatever reason. Curious.

Ana’s gaze slides toward me. There’s a question in her eyes.

Which one of us should take point?

A part of me knows Ana should lead this dance. She is not unaffected by our loss, but she has held herself together far better than I. But a different, louder part of my brain screams that I need answers, and I need them now, and I cannot allow anyone or anything to stand in my way. Not even reason.

Lifting my chin, I meet Santiago’s eyes. My voice is steady when I speak, steadier by far than how I feel.

“I want to know who killed my brother.”

Heaving a sigh, Santiago says, “I’m afraid I don’t know anything.”

And there it goes again. A tightness to his words I don’t trust.

I narrow my eyes. “Are you sure?”

His brow pinches. “Of course. If I knew something, I would tell you. I wouldn’t lie to you. Not about this.”

Interesting phrasing. “Do you mean to say you’ve lied to us about other things?”

“Kiki.” Ana places a hand on my elbow. I wrench my arm out of her grasp almost on instinct, my body tensing up. But when I glance at her face and see the worry etched on her expression, something deep in my chest loosens.

You’re being an ass, supplies a helpful little voice at the back of my head.

“Fine,” I say, turning away from him so I don’t have to look at his face. Trust is a fickle thing. Before any of this bullshit happened, I would have said I trusted Santiago, as much as I trust anyone, but now, I am not so sure. I am not so sure of anything. Since that night at the viceroy’s ball, it feels like the world—my world, at least—has shifted on its axis. Up is down. Left is right. Nothing is what I thought it was. Nothing is as it should be.

“Bring us some ale,” Ana tells Santiago, mostly just to get him away from me and whatever aura I am radiating. I am sure it is far from pleasant.