Chapter 9: Ignacio's Office

My T-shirt.

I'd left it on the floor of his room, beside the bed, when I ran.

I'd been so busy punching pillows I never went back for it.

The light turned green. Mateo didn't move. A truck behind us leaned on its horn.

"Drive," I said.

"Cass."

"Drive, Mateo. She's waiting."

Abuelo's office was in the middle of the house, off the living room, with a heavy door of mesquite wood he'd planed himself.

Nobody had used it since he died.

Pilar was sitting behind his desk.

She was in his leather chair, with her hands folded on his blotter.

The late sun came in gold through the window behind her, so I had to squint to see her face.

"Close the door, mijo," she said.

Mateo closed it.

"Where's Dad?" I asked.

"At the office until eight. The bid. He's telling everyone how wonderful you both were." She smiled. "Sit."

"I'll stand."

"Then stand."

She turned her phone around on the desk and pressed play.

It was the courtyard camera. Black and white, the motion light blazing.

The east arcade. The time in the corner: Tuesday, 12:55 a.m.

Mateo's door opened.

He came out in a T-shirt and sweatpants, looked both ways, and walked fast along the arcade toward the garage.

"I came home that night at one-forty," Pilar said. "And there was my son's truck in the garage, and my son was not in his bed."

She swiped.

A photo. A hotel carpet. A wrinkled gray T-shirt with VARELA CONSTRUCTION across the back in faded orange letters.

"The hotel was very helpful," she said. "I'm the name on the booking. They wanted to know where to send it."

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