Rodriguez came back in the room, saying, “I think she needs to lie down.”

“I understand,” Gil said just as the front door open and someone yelled, “Tía, we’re here.”

“That’s my nephew, my sister’s son,” she said, looking stricken. “I forgot, Ashley’s babysitting them. They don’t have school because of fiesta.”

A boy and a girl came into the kitchen and immediately looked at Gil with disdain.

The boy had blond Chia Pet hair, sticking straight out from his head in a round fuzzy ball. It was a crew cut gone wrong on a boy who shouldn’t have had one. In Northern New Mexico slang, he would have been called a coyote—a person who is half white, half Hispanic. It wasn’t a racial slur, only a locally used description, like Anglo or Pueblo Indian.

Next to him, holding his hand, was his girlfriend. She didn’t look nervous, more like ready for a fight, but then she was used to this, too. The excitement of being interviewed by the police had probably worn off months ago. She had dark eyes and a distinctive nose that Gil’s father would have said made the girl a Southern Colorado Hispanic. Long ago, two enclaves of conquistador descendents separated—one group stayed in Northern New Mexico and the other went to Southern Colorado. His father insisted that the passage of time had given each group defining physical characteristics. In the north, they tended to be taller and thinner and have bigger noses. In the south, they were stouter and had flatter faces. This, his dad would say proudly, was where Gil’s height came from. Their northern relatives.

The girl wore the typical heavy black eyeliner sweeping on top of the lid. It had been a popular look for Northern New Mexico girls since he had been a teenager. His wife said it made the eyes look more almond shaped. He thought it just made them all look sinister.

“Are you Justin and Laura?” Gil asked. Neither one of them answered, but the girl said mockingly, “More cops, great.”

“They found something,” Mrs. Rodriguez said, trying to pacify them.

“Where’s Ashley?” Justin asked.

“She’s not feeling good,” Gil said.

“Is she all right—” Justin started to ask, before Laura interrupted. “She’s supposed to be taking us to the Plaza for fiesta.” Laura was wearing a short-cropped pink tank top and running pants with sneakers, looking like one of the Bratz dolls Gil’s daughter Joy used to like so much. She had the attitude to match.

“I don’t think she’s up to it,” Mrs. Rodriguez said.

“Fine,” Laura said.

“Can I talk to you guys for a second?” Gil asked.

“No,” Justin said sharply.

“C’mon, dude, it’s about Brianna,” Joe said.

Justin rolled his eyes—and in that expression, Gil saw how tired the boy was. Not just of the questions, or of the police, but of all of it. Of death, or the possibility of it.

Lucy left her money on the table and waited for Gerald to catch up with her by the front door. He was taking his time, shaking and reshaking hands and smacking a few backs. She looked down at the racks of newspapers. Her newspaper was there, the Capital Tribune, along with the competition, the Santa Fe Times. There were also at least three weeklies there called things like Light Source, which sounded like it should be about proper lighting techniques for your home, or Heart Spirit, which sounded more like a name of a Kentucky Derby winner. Actually both newspapers were about the same thing—alternative healing. Santa Fe’s million-dollar industry. The weeklies advertised tarot readings, energy work, past life regressions, and somatic polarity. Lucy had lived in Santa Fe for a year and a half, but she had yet to get used to the Weird White People Syndrome—an illness afflicting only the entitled rich who came to town to experience the “magical healing” of the area.

They all came from the same cookie cutter. They were well-off, in their fifties or sixties, from back east; they drove huge SUVs and moved to Santa Fe for “the wide-open vistas.” They shopped at organic food stores. Went to art gallery openings. Sipped wine and talked about holistic bodywork.

Lucy turned her attention to a nearby bulletin board covered in a collage of the same kind of advertisements. There were flyers for yoga classes and various types of massage using crystals, Reiki, and organic honey. There was one for communicating with pets, including those who “had passed.” Lucy couldn’t imagine any reason someone might want to contact a dead pet. Unless Fluffy had learned