Charlotte is on the phone having a quiet conversation with someone from her office. Mr. Preston is using the washroom. I’m
pacing the living room. I stop at the window and open it a crack in a futile attempt to get some fresh air. Attached to our exterior wall, an empty bird feeder swings in the breeze. Gran and I used to watch birds from this window. We’d admire them for hours as they gobbled bread crumbs we’d leave out. We gave each little bird a name—Sir Chirpsalot, Lady Wingdamere, and the Earl of Beak. But when Mr. Rosso complained about the noise, we stopped our feeding. The birds flew away and never returned. Oh, to be a bird.
As I stare out the window, I catch little snippets of Charlotte’s conversation—“background check on Rodney Stiles,” “firearms registry for the name Giselle Black,” “inspection records for the Regency Grand Hotel.”
Mr. Preston emerges from the washroom. “No Juan Manuel?” he asks. “Not yet,” I reply.
About an hour ago, Charlotte and Mr. Preston decided to contact Juan Manuel. I was very unsure about dragging him into my mess.
“It’s the right thing to do,” Charlotte said. “For many reasons.”
“He holds the missing pieces,” Mr. Preston added. “He’s the only one who might be able to shed light on this fiasco—if we can convince him to talk.”
“Won’t he be afraid?” I asked. “I have reason to believe that his family has been threatened. And so has he.” I can’t bear to even mention the other part—the burn marks.
“Yes,” said Charlotte. “Who wouldn’t be scared? But he’ll have a new choice today that he didn’t have before.”
“What choice?” I asked.
“Between us and them,” Mr. Preston replied.
Mr. Preston wasted little time after that. He called someone in the hotel kitchen who called someone else who discreetly checked the staff directory and handed over Juan Manuel’s direct cell number, which all of us hastily stored in our phones.
I waited nervously as Mr. Preston dialed his number. What if he turned out to be yet another disappointment, another person who wasn’t who I thought they were?
“Juan Manuel?” Mr. Preston said. “Yes, that’s right…”
I couldn’t hear Juan Manuel’s responses, but I pictured his puzzled face as he tried to figure out why Mr. Preston was calling.
“I believe you’re in some serious danger,” Mr. Preston explained. He went on to say that his daughter was a lawyer and that he knew Juan Manuel had been coerced at the hotel.
There was a short pause as Juan Manuel spoke.
“I understand,” Mr. Preston said. “We don’t want you hurt, and we don’t want your family hurt either. You should also know that Molly’s in trouble as well…. Yes, that’s right…. She’s been framed for Mr. Black’s murder,” Mr. Preston said.
Another short pause, a bit more back and forth, and then, “Thank you… Yes…Certainly, we can explain everything in detail. And please know, we’d never do anything to…Yes, of course. All decisions will be up to you…. I’ll text you the address. See you soon.”
It’s now been over an hour, and Juan Manuel is still not here. All of this waiting and anticipating is having a most deleterious effect on my nerves. To calm myself, I think about what a difference it makes having Mr. Preston and Charlotte on my side. Yesterday, I was alone. This apartment felt bleak and hollow. All of its color and vibrancy drained away the day Gran died. But now it’s alive again, revitalized. I look at the feeder outside the window. Perhaps later I will scrounge for crumbs and fill it, no matter what Mr. Rosso says.
I feel overcharged and I can’t stay still, which is why I’m now pacing. If I were here by myself, I’d probably scour the floors or scrub the bathroom tiles, but I’m not by myself, not anymore. It’s altogether new and odd to have company. It’s also a great comfort.
Mr. Preston takes his seat on the sofa. Charlotte ends her call.
Something is eating away at me, and I decide to voice it. “Don’t you think I should call R-Rodney?” I ask. His name trips me up again, but I spit it out. “Perhaps he can offer an explanation? Maybe he has nothing at all to do with the cocaine found on my trolley. It could have been Cheryl, couldn’t it? Or someone else? What if Rodney’s the one who can actually explain all of this?”
“Absolutely not,” says Charlotte. “I’ve just done a background check on Rodney. Rich family but kicked out at fifteen. Then in a group home. Then petty theft, assault, and various drug charges that never stuck, and a string of different addresses a mile long before landing himself in this city.”
“See, Molly? Calling that cretin is a bad idea,” Mr. Preston says as he smooths out Gran’s crocheted blanket on the sofa. “He’ll only lie.”
“And then he’ll disappear,” Charlotte adds.
“What about Giselle? She must know something that can help me. Or Mr. Snow?”
Before either of them can answer, there’s a knock at my door.
My breath catches in my throat. “What if it’s the police?” The room starts to undulate and I fear I won’t make it to the front door.
Charlotte rises from her seat. “You have a legal representative now. The police would have called me if they wanted to contact you.”
She comes to my side. “It’s okay,” she says, putting a reassuring hand on my wrist. It works. I immediately feel a little bit calmer and the ripples in the floor solidify.
Mr. Preston appears on my other side. “You can do this, Molly,” he says. “Let’s open the door together.”
I take a deep breath and walk to the entryway. I open the door.
Juan Manuel is standing before me. He’s wearing a pressed polo shirt, tucked into his neat jeans. He’s carrying a white plastic takeout bag in one hand. His eyes are wide and his breath is ragged as though he climbed the stairs two by two.
“Hello, Molly,” he says. “I can’t believe it. I never, ever wanted trouble for you. If I could have—”
He stops midsentence. “Who are you?” he asks, looking past me to Charlotte.
She steps forward. “I’m Charlotte, Molly’s lawyer and Mr. Preston’s daughter. Please don’t be afraid. We have no intention of turning you in. And we know you’re in grave danger.”
“I’m in too deep,” he says. “So deep. I never chose this situation. They made me. They made Molly, too. It’s the same but different.”
“We’re both in trouble, Juan Manuel,” I say. “It is most serious.” “Yes, I know,” he says.
Mr. Preston speaks up from behind me. “What’s in the bag?”
“Leftovers from the hotel,” Juan Manuel replies. “I had to make it look like I was leaving for an early dinner break. There are afternoon tea sandwiches in there. I know you like them, Mr. Preston.”
“Oh, I do. Thank you,” says Mr. Preston. “I’ll lay them out. We all need to stay fortified.”
Mr. Preston takes the bag and brings it to the kitchen.
Juan Manuel stands at the threshold without moving. Now that he’s not holding the bag, it’s easy to see that his hands are shaking. So are mine.
“Won’t you come in?” I say.
He takes two unsteady steps forward.
“I’m grateful that you’ve come, especially given your current circumstances. I’m really hoping you’ll talk to me,” I say. “And to them. I need…help.”
“I know, Molly. We’re both in deep.”
“Yes. There are things that happened that I didn’t—” “That you didn’t understand—until now.”
“Yes,” I say. I glance at his scarred forearms, then turn away.
He steps inside and looks around the apartment. “Wow,” he says. “This place. It reminds me of home.”
He takes his shoes off. “Where can I put my work shoes? Not very clean.”
“Oh, that’s very thoughtful,” I say. I step around him and open the closet. I take out a cloth. I’m about to wipe the bottoms of his shoes when he takes the cloth from me.
“No, no. My shoes. My job.”
I stand there not knowing what to do with myself as he carefully wipes his shoes, puts them in the closet, then folds the cloth neatly and tucks it away before closing the closet door.
“I must warn you that I’m not altogether myself. Everything has been very…shocking. And I don’t normally have visitors, so I’m not used to that either. I’m not very practiced at entertaining.”
“For the love of God, Molly,” Mr. Preston says from the kitchen. “Just relax and accept some help. Juan Manuel, perhaps you can assist me in the kitchen?”
Juan Manuel joins him, and I excuse myself to use the washroom. The truth is, I need a moment to collect myself. I stare into the mirror and breathe deeply. Juan Manuel is here and we’re both in danger. I look like I’m falling apart. There are black circles under my eyes, which are swollen and red. I’m tense and drawn. Like the bathroom tiles that surround me, my cracks are beginning to show. I splash some water on my face, dry it off, and then exit the bathroom, joining my guests in the living room.
Mr. Preston carries in Gran’s serving tray full of dainty cucumber sandwiches—crusts removed—mini-quiches and other delectable leftovers. I smell the food and my stomach immediately begins to rumble. Mr. Preston puts the tray on the coffee table. Then he brings an additional chair from the kitchen for Juan Manuel. We all take our seats.
I can’t believe it. Here we are in Gran’s sitting room, all four of us. Mr. Preston and I are on the sofa, and in front of me are Charlotte and Juan Manuel. Pleasantries are exchanged, as if this were a friendly tea party, though we all know it is not. Charlotte’s asking about Juan Manuel’s family and how long he’s worked at the Regency Grand. Mr. Preston comments on what a reliable and hard worker he is. Juan Manuel looks down at his lap.
“I work hard, yes,” he says. “Too hard. But still, I have big problems.”
We have tiny plates on our laps filled with little sandwiches, which we are eating, me faster than anyone.
“Eat,” says Charlotte. “Both of you. This isn’t easy. You’ll need to stay strong.”
Juan Manuel leans forward.
“Here,” he says. “Try these.” He places two lovely finger sandwiches on my plate. “I made them.”
I pick up a sandwich and take a bite. It’s an exquisite taste, fluffy cream cheese and smoked salmon, with a burst of dill and lemon zest at the end. I’ve never tasted a sandwich more delicious in my life, so much so that it’s nearly impossible to follow Gran’s chewing imperative. It’s gone before I know it.
“Delightful,” I say. “Thank you.”
We are all silent for a moment, but if others feel uncomfortable I’m not aware. For a brief moment, despite the circumstances, I find myself feeling something I haven’t felt in so long, not since before Gran died. I feel… companionship. I feel…not entirely alone. Then I remember what brought everyone here in the first place, and the anxiety begins to churn again. I put my plate aside.
Charlotte does the same. She picks up the pad and pen by her chair. “Well, we’re all here for the same reason, so we better get started. Juan
Manuel, I believe my father filled you in about Molly’s predicament? And I believe you yourself are in a very challenging situation.”
Juan Manuel shifts in his chair. “Yes,” he says. “I am.” His big brown eyes look into mine. “Molly,” he says, “I never wanted to see you involved in this, but when they brought you in, I didn’t know what to do. I hope you believe me.”
I swallow and consider his words. It takes me a moment to spot the difference—between a bold-faced lie and the truth. But then it sharpens and I can see it clearly in his face. What he’s saying is the truth. “Thank you, Juan Manuel. I believe you.”
“Tell her what you told me in the kitchen,” Mr. Preston suggests.
“You know how every night I stayed in a different room at the hotel?
How you gave me a different keycard each night?” “Yes,” I say.
“Mr. Rodney, he wasn’t telling you the whole story. It’s true, I don’t have an apartment anymore. And no work permit now either. When I did, everything was great. I sent money back home. It was needed, because after my dad died, there wasn’t enough. My family was so proud of me—‘You’re a good son,’ my mother said. ‘You work hard for us.’ I was so happy. I was doing things the right way.”
Juan Manuel pauses, swallows, then continues to speak. “But then, when I needed my work permit extended, Mr. Rodney said, ‘No problem.’ He introduced me to his lawyer friend. And that lawyer friend took a lot of my money, but in the end, no permit. I complained to Rodney and he said, ‘My lawyer guy can fix anything. You’ll have a new permit in a few days.’ He told me he’d make sure Mr. Snow didn’t find out. But then he said, ‘You have to help me, too, you know. You scratch my back, I scratch yours.’ I didn’t want to scratch his back. I wanted to go back home, to find another way. But I couldn’t go back home. I had no savings left.”
Juan Manuel goes silent.
“What exactly did Rodney make you do?” Charlotte asks.
“At night, after my shift in the kitchen, I’d sneak into whatever hotel room with the keycard Molly gave me. Molly, she’d leave my bag there for
me, right?”
“Yes,” I say. “I did. Every night.”
“That bag, it was never mine. It was Mr. Rodney’s. His drugs were inside. Cocaine. And some other things too. He used to bring more drugs later in the night when no one else was around. And then he’d leave. All night, he made me work—sometimes alone, sometimes with Mr. Rodney’s men—and we’d prepare the cocaine for sale. I didn’t know nothing about these things before, I swear. But I learned. I had to learn. Fast.”
“When you say he made you, what do you mean exactly?” Charlotte asks.
Juan Manuel wrings his hands as he speaks. “I told Mr. Rodney, ‘I won’t do this. I can’t. I’d rather be deported than do this. This is wrong.’ But things got worse when I said that. He said he’d kill me. I said, ‘I don’t care. Kill me. This is no life.’ ” Juan Manuel pauses, looks down at his lap, then continues. “But in the end, Mr. Rodney found a way to make me do his bad business.”
Juan Manuel’s face tightens. I notice the dark rings around his eyes and the redness in them. We look the same, he and I—all of our sorrows on full display.
“What did Rodney do then?” Charlotte asks.
“He said if I don’t keep quiet and do his dirty work, he would kill my family back home. You don’t understand. He has bad friends. He knew my address in Mazatlán. He’s a bad man. Sometimes, when I was working late, I got so tired I’d fall asleep in my chair. I’d wake up, forget where I was. Mr. Rodney’s men, they would hit me, throw water at me to keep me awake. Sometimes they burned me with cigars to punish me.” He holds out his arm.
“Molly,” Juan Manuel says. “I made up lies about the dishwasher burning me; I’m sorry. It’s not the truth.” His voice catches and he dissolves into tears. “It’s wrong,” he says. “I know a grown man should not cry like a baby,” he says. He looks up at me. “Molly, when you came in the hotel room that day and saw me with Rodney and his men, I tried to tell you to
run away, to go tell someone. I didn’t want them to get you like they got me. But they did. They found a way to get you too.”
Mr. Preston is shaking his head as Juan Manuel continues to sob. My own tears begin to fall.
Suddenly, I feel very tired, more tired than I’ve ever felt in my life. All I want is to get up from the sofa, pad down the hallway to my bedroom, wrap myself up in Gran’s lone-star quilt, and fall asleep forever. I think back to Gran in her last days. Is this what she felt near the end, drained of the will to carry on?
“Looks like we found our rat,” Mr. Preston says.
“Where there’s one, there are more,” Charlotte adds. She turns to Juan Manuel. “Was Rodney working for Mr. Black? Did you ever hear or see anything—anything at all—that might suggest Mr. Black was actually behind this drug operation?”
Juan Manuel wipes the tears from his face. “Mr. Rodney never said much about Mr. Black, but sometimes he took calls. He thinks I’m so stupid that I don’t understand English. But I heard everything. Mr. Rodney would sometimes come into the room late at night with lots and lots of money. He’d set up meetings to give money to Mr. Black. Like more money than I ever seen in my life. Like this.” He makes a gesture with his hands.
“Stacks of bills,” Charlotte said. “Yes. New. Fresh.”
“There were bundles like that in Mr. Black’s safe the day I found him dead,” I say. “Perfect, clean stacks.”
Juan Manuel continues. “Once, Rodney was really upset because there wasn’t much money coming in that night. He went to meet Mr. Black and when he came back, he had a scar just like mine. But not on his arms. On his chest. That’s how I knew I wasn’t the only one getting punished.”
The pieces come together. I remember the V of Rodney’s crisp, white shirt and the strange round blemish marring his perfectly smooth chest.
“I’ve seen that scar,” I say.
“There’s another thing,” Juan Manuel says. “Mr. Rodney never talked to me directly about Mr. Black. But I know he knows the wife. The new wife.
Mrs. Giselle.”
“That’s not possible,” I say. “Rodney assured me he barely ever spoke to her.” But even as I say it, I realize I’m a fool.
“How do you know Rodney knows Giselle?” Charlotte asks.
Juan Manuel takes out his phone from his pocket and flicks through some photos until he finds the one he’s looking for. “Because I caught him,” he says. “How do you say in English en flagrante delito…”
“In flagrante?” Mr. Preston offers.
“Like this,” he says, and turns his phone around to show us a picture.
It’s Rodney and Giselle. They are kissing so passionately in a shadowy hallway of the hotel that they most certainly would not have noticed Juan Manuel taking the picture. My heart feels sore and heavy as I stare at the photo, registering the details—her hair swept across his shoulder, his hand on the small of her arched back. I fear my heart may stop altogether.
“Wow,” says Charlotte. “Can you send that to me?”
“Yes,” Juan Manuel says. They exchange numbers and he texts the photo to her. It takes only a few seconds for the vile proof to replicate on her phone.
Charlotte stands and paces the living room. “It’s becoming more and more clear that Giselle and Rodney had multiple reasons to want Mr. Black dead. But the only way we can prove Molly is innocent is by finding irrefutable proof that one or both of them killed Mr. Black.”
“It wasn’t Giselle,” I say. “She didn’t do it.” Many skeptical eyes turn my way.
“Oh, Molly. How do you know that?” Charlotte asks. “I do. I just do.”
Charlotte and Mr. Preston exchange that look again, the look of doubt. Mr. Preston rises to his feet. “I have an idea,” he announces.
“Uh-oh,” Charlotte replies.
“Just hear me out,” he says. “It’s not going to be easy, and we’ll have to work as a team….”
“That’s a given,” says Charlotte.
“I like this team idea,” says Juan Manuel. “It’s not right, the way they treat us.”
“We’ll have to be conniving,” says Mr. Preston. “We’ll have to make a plan that’s ironclad.”
“A plan,” Charlotte says.
“Yes,” Mr. Preston answers. “A plan. To outsmart the fox.”
