‌Iwalk at a leisurely pace back to my apartment. It’s funny how when you’re feeling the impact of stress, it’s hard to appreciate the small,‌

inspiring things around you—the birds chirping their last lullabies before puffing up for a night’s sleep, the cotton-candy sky as the sun sets, the fact that you’re on your way home and unlike every other day for the last several months, when you open your front door, there will be a friend there waiting for you. It may be the first time since Gran’s death that I feel such a sense of hope.

Everything will be okay in the end. If it’s not okay, it’s not the end.

My building is up ahead. I quicken my pace. I know Juan Manuel will be desperate for news, real news, not just a thumbs-up emoji.

I glide through the front doors and take the steps to my floor two by two.

I turn down my hallway, take out my key and enter. “I’m home!” I call out.

Juan Manuel rushes my way and is standing much closer than a trolley- length away from me, not that his proximity bothers me. I’ve never had an issue with people being near me. My issue has always been the opposite— that people keep their distance.

“Híjole, you’re home,” he says, his hands together. He opens the closet, grabs the shoe cloth, and waits as I take off my shoes.

“Did it work?” he asks. “Did they catch the fox?”

“Yes,” I say. “I saw it with my own eyes. They caught Rodney.”

“Oh, thank you, thank you. You must tell me everything. You’re okay?

Tell me—you’re okay?”

“Juan Manuel, I’m fine. I’m very well indeed.”

“Good,” he says, exhaling. “Very good.” He grabs my shoes and rubs at the soles as if a genie were going to materialize from them. His aggressive polishing mercifully concludes and he puts my shoes and the cloth away in the closet. Then he hugs me. I’m so surprised by this sudden display of affection that my arms flail out and I forget that the correct thing to do is to hug back. Just when I realize this, he lets go.

“What was that for?” I ask.

“For getting home safe,” he says. “Come. To the kitchen. I prepared a small dinner for us. I tried to have hope, Molly, but I was worried. I thought maybe the police would come and take me away or maybe you would never come back. I had bad, bad thoughts about if they…” He trails off.

“If they what?” I ask.

“Rodney and his men,” he says. “If they…hurt you the way they hurt me.”

I feel the room tilt thirty degrees at the very thought, but I breathe deeply to settle myself.

“Come,” Juan Manuel says.

I follow him to the kitchen, where he’s laid out a spread. It’s the leftovers from the Olive Garden, put together beautifully on plates for each of us. He’s even lain Gran’s black-and-white-checkered tablecloth for additional Italian ambience. The effect is charming. Our tiny kitchen nook is transformed into a scene on a tourist postcard. It feels as though I’m in a dream, and it takes me a moment to recover my voice.

“This looks so lovely, Juan Manuel,” I manage to say. “Do you know that for the first time in a long time, I think I can eat a full meal?”

“We eat, and you tell me everything,” he says.

We sit down together, but no sooner than he’s seated does he spring to his feet once more. “Oh, I forgot,” he says.

He hurries to the living room and returns with one of Gran’s candlesticks and a matchbox. “Can we light this?” he asks. “I know it’s special, but today is special, too, no? Today, they catch the right man?”

“Yes, they drove him away in a police car,” I say. “And I hope this means good things for both of us.” Even as the words leave my lips, doubt creeps in. One thing is to have hope; another thing is to trust that all will end the way it should—for Juan Manuel, and for me.

He places the candle between us. Just as we’re about to pick up our forks, my phone rings in my pocket and I practically jump out of my chair. It’s Charlotte. Thank goodness.

“Charlotte?” I say. “This is Molly. Molly Gray.” “Yes,” she answers. “I know. Are you okay?”

“Yes,” I say. “I’m quite well. Thank you for asking. I’m here at home with Juan Manuel and we are about to take a Tour of Italy.”

“I’m sorry?”

“It’s not important. Can you tell me how things went inside the hotel? I saw it happen, from the coffee shop, but did the plan work? Did they catch Rodney in flagrante?”

“Things went very well, Molly. Listen, I can’t talk much now. I’m at the police station. Detective Stark wants me in her office. You and Juan Manuel stay right there, okay? Dad and I will be your way as soon as we can. This will probably take a couple of hours. And I think you’ll be very pleased with the results.”

“Okay, yes. Thank you, Charlotte,” I say. “Give my regards to Detective Stark.”

“You want me to…are you sure?” “There’s no reason to be impolite.” “Okay, Molly. I’ll say hello from you.” “Please tell her I can read nods.”

“You can what?”

“Just say that, please, exactly that. And thank you.”

“Okay,” Charlotte says. Then she ends the call. I put my phone away. “I’m terribly sorry for the interruption. I’ll have you know that it’s not

my usual practice to take calls during dinner. I don’t intend to make a habit of it.”

“Molly, you worry too much about ‘this is right’ and ‘this is not right.’ I just want to know what Charlotte said.”

“They caught him in the act. Rodney.” “En flagrante delito?”

“In flagrante, yes.”

A smile spreads across Juan Manuel’s face and into his dark-brown eyes. Gran once told me that a real smile happens in the eyes, something I never really understood until right now.

“Molly, I never had a chance before to speak with just you, to say sorry.

I never wanted you to be involved in any of this.”

I have picked up my fork, but I immediately put it down.

“Juan Manuel,” I say, “you tried to keep me out of this. You even tried to warn me.”

“Maybe I should have tried harder. Maybe I should have told the police everything. The problem is I don’t trust the police. When they look at people like me, sometimes all they see is bad. And not all police are good, Molly. How can you tell who is who? I worried if I talked about the drugs and the hotel, maybe things would get even worse—for me and for you.”

“Yes,” I say. “I understand. I’ve had my own troubles telling who is who.”

“And Rodney and Mr. Black,” he continues. “I no longer cared if they killed me. But my mother? My family? I was so scared they’d hurt them. And I was scared they’d hurt you too. I thought, if I just take the pain, if I stay quiet, maybe no one else gets hurt.”

His wrists are on the table, not his elbows. I’m struggling to focus on his face because all I can see are the scars on his forearms, some healed over and one or two still raw.

I point to Juan Manuel’s arms. “Was it him?” I ask. “Did Rodney do that to you?”

“Not Rodney,” he says. “His friends. The big ones. But Rodney gave the orders. Mr. Black burns Rodney, so Rodney burns me. This is what I get for complaining, for saying I don’t want to do Rodney’s dirty work. And for having a family I love when he doesn’t have one.”

“It’s so wrong, what they did to you.”

“Yes,” he says. “It is. And what they did to you.” “Your arms. They look sore,” I say.

“They were. But today, they’re okay. Today, I feel a little bit better. I don’t even know what will happen to me, but I still feel good because Rodney is caught. And we have a candle to light. And so there’s hope.” He takes a match out of the matchbox and lights the candle. Then he says, “We shouldn’t let the food get cold. Let’s eat.”

We pick up our forks, and we enjoy the meal. I have ample time, not only to chew the correct number of times but also to savor each and every bite. Between bites, I recount every detail of the afternoon—how I sat at the coffee shop, how I waited and worried, how I saw myself on TV, how the cars screeched to a halt, how it felt to see Rodney’s head being unceremoniously pushed into the backseat of a cruiser. When I tell him about the woman at the coffee shop recognizing me from the news, he starts to laugh out loud. For a moment, I’m frozen. I can’t tell if he’s laughing at me or with me.

“What’s so funny?” I ask.

“She thought you were a murderer! In her shop. Drinking tea and eating a cake!”

“It wasn’t a cake,” I say. “It was a muffin, a raisin-bran muffin.”

He laughs even harder at that, and I don’t know why, but what becomes clear is that he’s laughing with me. Suddenly, I find myself laughing, too, laughing at a raisin-bran muffin without even knowing why.

After dinner, Juan Manuel starts clearing the dishes.

“No,” I say. “You were very kind to serve dinner. I’ll clean up.”

“Not fair,” he replies. “You think you’re the only one who likes to clean?

Why do you take away my joy?”

He smiles again in that way of his, and he grabs Gran’s apron from behind the kitchen door. It’s blue-and-pink paisley with flowers, but he doesn’t seem to care. He loops it over his head and hums to himself as he ties the string. I haven’t seen that apron on anyone in so long; even Gran herself was too ill to use it in her final months. And to see it become three- dimensional, to see a body give it shape again…I don’t know why, but it makes me look away.

I turn to the table and gather the remaining dishes as Juan Manuel prepares the sink with soapy water.

Together, we make quick progress on the mess, and in just a few minutes, the entire kitchen is perfectly gleaming.

“See?” he says. “I’ve worked in kitchens all my life—big ones, small ones, family ones—and at the end of the day to see a clean counter makes the heart jump with joy.”

“Jump for joy?” I say. “Ah yes. Jump for joy.”

I look at him in the glow of Gran’s candle, and it’s as if I’ve never really looked properly. I’ve seen this man every day at work for months on end, and now, suddenly, he is more handsome than I’ve ever noticed before.

“Do you ever feel invisible?” I ask. “At work, I mean. Do you ever feel like people don’t see you?”

He’s taking off Gran’s apron, replacing it on the hook by the door.

“Yes, of course,” he says. “I’m used to this feeling. I know what it’s like to be completely invisible, to feel alone in a strange world. To be afraid for the future.”

“It must have been terrible for you,” I say. “To be forced to help Rodney even though you knew it was a bad thing to do.”

“Sometimes, you must do one thing bad to do another thing good. It’s not always so clear, so black and white like everyone thinks. Especially when you don’t have choices.”

Yes. He’s absolutely right.

“Tell me something, Juan Manuel,” I say. “Do you like puzzles? Jigsaw puzzles?”

“Do I like them? I love them.”

Just then, there’s a knock at the door. I feel my stomach sink and find my legs are glued to the floor.

“Molly, can we open?…Molly?” “Yes, of course,” I say.

I force my legs to move. We both reach the door. I unlock and open it. Charlotte and Mr. Preston are standing there, and behind them, Detective

Stark.

My knees weaken and I brace myself against the doorframe. “It’s okay, Molly,” Mr. Preston says. “It’s okay.”

“The detective is here with good news,” Charlotte adds.

I hear the words, but I’m unable to move. Juan Manuel is at my side, keeping me upright. I hear a door open down the hall and the next thing I see is Mr. Rosso standing behind Detective Stark. It’s like a party at my front door.

“I knew it!” he yells. “I knew you were no good, Molly Gray. I saw you on the news! I want you out of this building, you hear me? Officer, get her out of here!”

I can feel the rush of shame burning into my cheeks, robbing me of my voice.

Detective Stark turns to Mr. Rosso. “Actually, sir. That news report was misinformed. There’ll be a correction issued in about an hour. Molly is entirely innocent of any wrongdoing. In fact, she’s tried to help with this case, and that wasn’t understood at first. That’s why I’m here.”

“Sir,” Charlotte says to Mr. Rosso, “as I’m sure you’re aware, you can’t simply evict tenants with no cause. Has Ms. Gray paid the rent?”

“Late, but yes, she paid,” he replies.

“Ms. Gray is a model tenant who does not deserve your harassment,” Charlotte says. “Also, Detective Stark,” she says, “did you notice any elevator in this—”

“I’m sorry, I must go,” Mr. Rosso says, and begins to rush away. “Goodbye!” Charlotte calls after him.

The hall is quiet. We’re all standing at my door. All eyes are on me. I don’t know what to do.

Mr. Preston clears his throat. “Molly, would you be so kind as to invite us in?”

My legs rouse themselves from their torpor. As I regain my strength, Juan Manuel’s grip releases.

“My apologies,” I say. “I’m not accustomed to receiving so many guests.

But it’s not unwelcome company. Do come in.”

Juan Manuel stands like a sentinel to the side of the door, greeting each guest and asking them to take off their shoes, which he wipes down with shaky hands and neatly places in the front closet.

All of my guests walk into the sitting room and stand awkwardly. What are they waiting for?

“Please,” I say. “Have a seat.”

Mr. Preston goes to the kitchen and comes back with two chairs, which he places across from the sofa.

“Would anyone like tea?” I ask.

“I’d murder for a cuppa,” Mr. Preston says. “Dad!”

“Poor choice of words. Apologies.”

“That’s quite all right, Mr. Preston,” I say. I turn to Detective Stark. “We all make mistakes from time to time, don’t we, Detective?”

Detective Stark appears very interested in her own stockinged feet. It must be unusual for her, to take off her boots on a work call, to have her tender tootsies so exposed.

“So,” I say. “What about that tea?”

“I will make it,” Juan Manuel replies. His eyes flit to the detective and then he makes a hasty retreat into the kitchen.

Mr. Preston offers Detective Stark a seat, and she obliges. Charlotte sits in her usual chair. I take my place on the sofa, with Mr. Preston beside me in the spot where Gran always sat, before.

“As you can imagine,” I say, “I’m most curious to know what has transpired in the last few hours. I would most expressly appreciate knowing

if I remain accused of murder.”

I hear a spoon clatter against the tiled floor in the kitchen. “Sorry!” Juan Manuel calls out.

“All charges against you are dropped,” Detective Stark says.

“All of them,” Charlotte repeats. “The detective wanted you to come to the station so she could tell you in person, but I insisted she face you here instead.”

“Thank you,” I say to Charlotte.

She leans forward in her chair, looking right into my eyes. “You’re innocent, Molly. You understand? They know that now.”

I hear the words. They register in my head, but I don’t quite believe them. Words without action can be deceiving.

Mr. Preston gives my knee a little pat. “There, there. All’s well that ends well.” It’s exactly what Gran would have said, were she still alive.

“Molly,” Detective Stark says, “I’m here because we’re going to need your help. We received a call from Mr. Snow this afternoon urging us to come to the hotel immediately. He was tipping us off to new developments.”

Juan Manuel emerges from the kitchen, his face pale and drawn. He’s carrying Gran’s tea tray, which he sets on the table. He backs away then, several trolley-lengths from the detective.

Detective Stark doesn’t notice. She eyes the tray and chooses Gran’s cup, which bothers me no end, but never mind.

“Juan Manuel,” I say as I stand up. “Please take my seat.” I wish I had another chair to offer him, but alas, I do not.

“No, no,” he says. “Please, you sit, Molly. I stand.”

“Good idea,” Detective Stark says. “Less chance of her fainting again.” I sit back down.

The detective adds some sugar to her tea, stirs, then continues. “When we entered the former Black suite today, the bartender of the Social Bar & Grill, Rodney Stiles, and two of his associates, were inside.”

“Two imposing gentlemen with an interesting array of facial tattoos?” I ask.

“Yes, you know them?”

“I thought they were guests of the hotel,” I say. “I was told they were Juan Manuel’s friends.” As soon as I say it, I regret it.

It’s as though Mr. Preston can read my mind, for he immediately says, “Don’t worry, Molly. The detective knows all about Rodney and the blackmailing against Juan Manuel. And the…violent acts against him too.”

Juan Manuel is standing motionless just outside of the kitchen. I know what this feels like—to be discussed as if you’re not even there.

“Molly, can you tell the detective why you cleaned rooms for Rodney whenever he asked? Just tell the detective the truth,” Charlotte says.

I look to Juan Manuel. I won’t say another word without his consent. “It’s okay,” he says. “You can tell them.”

I then proceed to explain everything, how Rodney lied, that he told me Juan Manuel was his friend and that he was homeless, how he had me clean rooms without me realizing what it was I was wiping away, how he deceived me—and how he used Juan Manuel.

“I didn’t know what was actually going on in those rooms every night. I didn’t realize Juan Manuel was being violently assaulted. I thought I was helping a friend.”

“Why did you believe him, though?” Detective Stark asks. “Why did you believe Rodney when it was pretty obvious that drugs were involved?”

“What’s obvious for you, Detective, isn’t always obvious for everyone else. As my gran used to say, ‘We’re all the same in different ways.’ The truth is, I trusted Rodney. I trusted a bad egg.”

Juan Manuel remains statue-still outside of the kitchen.

“Rodney used me and Juan Manuel to make himself invisible,” I say. “I see that now.”

“You’re right,” Detective Stark replies. “We’ve caught him, though. We found large quantities of benzodiazepine and cocaine in that suite. It was literally right in his hands.”

I think of Giselle’s “benz friends” in an unmarked bottle, most likely supplied by Rodney.

“We’ve charged him with several drug-related offenses, possession of an illegal firearm, and threatening an officer.”

“Threatening an officer?” I say.

“He pulled a handgun when the door of the suite opened. Same make and model as the one we found in your vacuum, Molly.”

It’s hard to imagine—Rodney in his white shirt with the sleeves rolled, pulling a gun rather than a pint of beer at the bar.

It’s Juan Manuel who notices what I do not. All eyes turn to him as he speaks. “You mentioned many charges. But you never mentioned murder.”

Detective Stark nods. “We have also charged Rodney with the first- degree murder of Mr. Black. But to be perfectly honest, we’re going to need your help to make that charge stick. There are still a few things we can’t figure out.”

“Such as?” Charlotte prompts.

“When we first went into the Black suite the day you found him dead, Molly, there were no traces of Rodney’s fingerprints anywhere in that whole suite. In fact, there were hardly any prints anywhere. And traces of your cleaning solution were found on Mr. Black’s neck.”

“Because I checked his pulse. Because—”

“Yes. We know, Molly. We know you didn’t kill him.” It occurs to me then. “It’s my fault.”

Everyone looks my way.

“What could you possibly mean by that?” Mr. Preston asks.

“The fact that you couldn’t find Rodney’s prints anywhere. When I clean a room, I leave it in a state of perfection. If Rodney ever entered that room and left prints behind, I would have wiped them away without even knowing it. I’m a good maid. Maybe too good.”

“You may be right,” Detective Stark says. She smiles then, but not a full smile, not the kind that reaches the eyes. “We’re wondering if you know anything about Giselle Black’s whereabouts. After we arrested Rodney, we rushed to her hotel room, but she was already gone. Seems she saw us ambush the hotel and took off in a real hurry. She left a note on Regency Grand stationery.”

“What did it say?” I ask.

“It said, ‘Ask Molly the Maid. She’ll tell you. I didn’t do it. Rodney and Charles = BFFs.’ ”

“BFFs?” I say.

“Best friends forever,” Charlotte offers. “She’s saying Rodney and Charles were accomplices.”

“Yes,” says Juan Manuel. “They were accomplices.” All eyes turn his way. He continues to speak. “Rodney and Mr. Black talked a lot on the phone. Sometimes, they argued. About money. About shipments and territories and deals. Nobody thinks I hear anything, but I do.”

The detective turns her chair to face Juan Manuel. “We’d be very interested in taking your witness statement,” she says.

A look of alarm crosses Juan Manuel’s face.

“They’re not going to charge you,” Charlotte says. “Or deport you. They know you’re a victim of crime. And they need your help to try the perpetrator.”

“That’s right,” the detective says. “We understand that you were threatened and coerced to cooperate with Rodney, that you suffered… physical assault. And we know you had a work permit that ran out.”

“It didn’t just ‘run out,’ ” Juan Manuel says. “It ran into Rodney.”

Detective Stark cocks her head to one side. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Juan Manuel explains how Rodney put him in touch with an immigration lawyer, only to have his money disappear and his papers never materialize.

“This ‘lawyer.’ You have his name?” Juan Manuel nods.

The detective shakes her head. “Looks like we have another case to pursue.”

Charlotte jumps in. “Juan Manuel, if you support us as a key witness in the case against Rodney, maybe we can also catch this so-called lawyer. Catch him before he does this to more people.”

“No one else should go through this,” Juan Manuel says.

“That’s right. And Juan Manuel,” Charlotte says. “My partner García handles immigration law in our firm. If you want, I can introduce you to him, see if he can get your work permit reinstated.”

“I would like to talk to him, yes,” Juan Manuel says. “I have many concerns—Mr. Snow, for one thing. He knows what I did. He knows I stayed quiet when I should have talked. He will fire me for sure.”

“He won’t,” Mr. Preston says. “He needs you now more than ever.”

“We all do,” Detective Stark adds. “We need you to corroborate that Rodney and Mr. Black were running a cartel through the hotel, that they were using and abusing you. With your help, we might also be able to figure out what pushed Rodney to commit murder. He maintains he’s innocent on that charge. Admits to the drug charges, but not to murder. Not yet.”

Juan Manuel is quiet for a moment. Then he says, “I will help you if I can.”

“Thank you,” Detective Stark says. “And Molly, is there anything else you can tell us about Giselle? Do you have any idea where she could be?”

“She’ll appear, when she’s ready,” I say. “Let’s hope,” Detective Stark says.

I imagine Giselle on a faraway white-sand beach, clicking through news feeds on her phone and learning of Rodney’s arrest. She’ll find out that I’m no longer a suspect. What will she do then? Will she reach out to the police? Or will she put it all behind her? Will she grift her way into another rich man’s wallet or will she actually grow and change?

I have never been a very good judge of character. I see the truth too late. It’s like Juan Manuel said: sometimes, you have to do one thing bad to do another thing good. Perhaps this time, Giselle will do one thing good. Or perhaps not.

“What happens now?” I ask. “For Juan Manuel? For me?”

“Well,” Detective Stark says. “You’re free. All charges are dropped.” “But am I still fired?” I ask. The very thought of it makes me feel like

I’m falling off a cliff to my doom.

“No, Molly,” Mr. Preston says. “You won’t lose your job. In fact, Mr.

Snow will talk to you and to Juan Manuel about that himself.” “Really?” I say. “He won’t fire either of us?”

“He said you’re both model workers and that you exemplify what it means to be Regency Grand employees,” Mr. Preston says.

“But what about the trial?” I ask.

“That won’t be for a long while,” Charlotte replies. “We’ll prepare for it, and that will take many months. But hopefully, by working with Detective Stark and her team, we’ll be able to put Rodney behind bars for a long time.”

“That seems appropriate,” I say. “He’s a liar, an abuser, and a cheat.” “He’s also a murderer,” Mr. Preston adds.

I say nothing.

“Detective,” Charlotte says, “I’m sensing my client is tired. It’s been quite a day for her, given that this morning she was wrongly accused of murder and now she’s having tea in her living room with her accuser. Was there anything else you wanted to say to her?”

Detective Stark clears her throat. “Just that I, uh, regret that you were… detained.”

“That’s very kind of you, Detective,” I say. “I hope you’ve learned an important lesson.”

The detective shifts in her chair as if she’s seated on a sharp pin. “I’m sorry?” she says.

“Perhaps you jumped to some conclusions about me. You expected certain reactions that you consider normal, and when you didn’t see those reactions, you assumed I was guilty. You made an A-S-S out of U and Me.”

“That’s one way to put it,” she says.

“My gran always said that to live is to learn. Maybe next time you’ll avoid assumptions.”

“We’re all the same in different ways,” Juan Manuel adds. “Huh,” she says. “I suppose.”

With that she stands, thanks us for our time, puts on her boots, and leaves.

Once the door clicks shut behind her, I slide the rusty dead bolt across it and breathe a huge sigh of relief.

I turn around and instead of emptiness, in my living room I see the faces of my three friends. They are all smiling, the kind of smiles that reach their eyes. For the first time in my life, I think I understand what a true friend is. It isn’t just someone who likes you; it’s someone willing to take action on your behalf.

“Well?” Mr. Preston says. “That detective just ate so much humble pie I think she might explode. How does it feel, Molly?”

I’m relieved beyond measure, but there’s more to it than that. “I…I’m not quite certain what I did to deserve this,” I say.

“You didn’t deserve any of it,” Charlotte says. “You’re innocent.”

“I don’t mean the crimes. I mean the kindness the three of you have shown me, for no good reason.”

“There’s always a reason for kindness,” Juan Manuel says.

“You’re right,” Mr. Preston says. “And you know who used to say that to me all the time?”

“No,” I say.

“Your good ol’ gran.”

“She never did tell me how you two knew each other,” I say.

“No, I expect she didn’t,” he replies. He takes a deep breath. “We were engaged, once upon a time.”

“You were what?” Charlotte says.

“That’s right, I had a life before you, my dear, a life you know very little about.”

“I can’t believe this,” Charlotte says. “I’m learning this only now?”

“So what happened?” Juan Manuel asks. He settles himself into the detective’s empty chair.

“Your grandmother, Flora, she was a wonderful lady, Molly. She was kind and sensitive. She was so different from other girls her age, and I was completely besotted. I proposed to her when we were both sixteen, and she said yes. But her parents wouldn’t allow it. They were well-to-do, you know. She was miles above my station, yet she never acted that way.”

I’m surprised by what I’m hearing, utterly shocked. But perhaps I should have known that Gran had her secrets. We all do, all of us.

“Oh, how your gran loved you, Molly,” Mr. Preston says. “More than you’ll ever know.”

“And you kept in touch with her over the years?” I ask.

“Yes. She was friendly with my wife, Mary. And from time to time, when Flora was in trouble, she’d call me. But the real trouble happened early.”

“What do you mean?” I ask.

“Did it ever occur to you that you had a grandfather?” “Yes,” I say. “Gran called him a ‘fly-by-night too.’ ”

“Did she?” he says. “He was many things, but never that. He’d never have flown away if he’d had a choice. He was forced. Anyhow, he was known to me. A friend, you could say. And you know how things happen when love is fresh and the blush is still on the rose.” Mr. Preston pauses to clear his throat. “As it turns out, Flora was with child. And when she could hide it no longer and her parents found out, that’s when they really turned their backs on her, for good. Poor girl. She wasn’t yet seventeen. She was just a child secretly running away with a child of her own. That’s why she became a domestic.”

It’s hard to imagine, Gran on her own like that, losing everything, everyone. I feel a heaviness on my shoulders, a sadness that I can’t quite name.

“She was bright, your gran. Could have won scholarships to any school,” Mr. Preston says. “But in those days, as an unwed woman with child, say goodbye to education.”

“Now, wait just a second, Dad,” Charlotte says. “Something doesn’t make sense. Who was this friend of yours? And where is he now?”

“The last I heard, he has a family of his own that he loves very much.

But he’s never forgotten Flora. Never.”

Charlotte’s head cocks to the side. She eyes her father in a funny way that I don’t quite understand. “Dad?” she says. “Is there anything else you want to tell me?”

“My dear girl,” he says. “I think I’ve said quite enough already.” “Did you know my mother too?” I ask him.

“Yes. Now, she was a true fly-by-night, I’m afraid. Your gran had me try to talk some sense into her when she shacked up with the wrong fellow. I went to see her, tried to pry her from the flophouse she was living in, but she wouldn’t listen. Your poor gran, the pain of that…of losing a child the way she did…” Mr. Preston’s eyes fill with tears. Charlotte grabs his hand.

“Your gran was so good, that she was,” Mr. Preston says. “When my Mary was struggling near the end, your gran came to her rescue.”

“What do you mean?” I ask.

“Mary was in extreme pain and so was I. I sat by her bedside holding her hand, saying, ‘Please don’t go. Not yet.’ Flora watched it all, then drew me aside. She said, ‘Don’t you see? She won’t leave you until you tell her it’s time.’ ”

That’s exactly what Gran would have said. I hear her words echo in my head. “Then what happened?” I ask.

“I told Mary I loved her and I did as Flora said. That’s all my wife needed to rest in peace.”

Mr. Preston can’t hold back his sobs any longer.

“You did the right thing, Dad,” Charlotte says. “Mom was suffering.” “I always wanted to repay your gran, for showing me the way.”

“You have repaid her, Mr. Preston,” I say. “You’ve come to my aid, and Gran would be grateful.”

“Oh no, that’s not me,” Mr. Preston says. “That’s Charlotte.”

“No, Dad. You insisted on this. You convinced me we had to help this young maid you worked with. I think I’m starting to see why it was so important to you.”

“A friend in need is a friend indeed,” I say. “Gran thanks you. All of you. If she were here, she’d say it herself.”

With that, Mr. Preston stands, as does Charlotte. “Well, let’s not get too soggy then,” he says as he wipes his cheeks. “We best be going.”

“It’s been a long day,” Charlotte adds. “Juan Manuel, we brought your real overnight bag from your locker at the hotel. It’s by the front closet.”

“Thank you,” he says.

It strikes me suddenly, an urgent feeling. I don’t want them to leave. What if they walk out of my life and never come back? It’s not the first time that has happened. The thought puts me instantly on edge.

“Will I be seeing you again?” I ask. I can’t keep the anxiety out of my voice.

Mr. Preston chuckles. “Whether you like it or not, Molly.”

“You’ll be seeing us plenty,” Charlotte replies. “We have a case to prepare.”

“And besides the case, you’re stuck with us, Molly. You know, I’m old, and I’m a widower who’s become a bit set in my ways. It may seem odd, but this has been good for me. All of this. All of you. It feels like…”

“Family?” Juan Manuel suggests.

“Yes,” Mr. Preston says. “That’s exactly what it feels like.”

“You know,” Juan Manuel says, “in my family, the rule is that on Sundays, we all have dinner together. That’s the thing I miss the most from back home.”

“That’s easily remedied,” I say. “Charlotte, Mr. Preston, would you be so kind as to join us for dinner this Sunday?”

“I’ll cook!” Juan Manuel says. “You’ve probably never had real Mexican food, the kind my mother makes. I’ll make the Tour of Mexico. Oh, you’ll love it.”

Mr. Preston looks to Charlotte. She nods. “We’ll bring dessert,” Mr. Preston says.

“And a bottle of champagne to celebrate,” Charlotte adds.

At the doorway, I stand and wait as Charlotte and Mr. Preston put on their shoes. I’m not sure of the proper etiquette for saying goodbye to two people who have just saved you from life in prison.

“Well, what are you waiting for?” Mr. Preston says. “Give your ol’ friend a hug.”

I do as I’m told and am surprised by the sensation—I feel like Goldilocks hugging Papa Bear.

I hug Charlotte as well, and it’s pleasant but entirely different, like caressing the wing of a butterfly.

They leave arm in arm, and I close the door behind them. Juan Manuel stands in the entryway, shifting from foot to foot.

“Are you sure, Molly, that you’re okay with me staying here tonight?” “Yes,” I say. “Just for tonight.” The words that follow cascade out of my

mouth. “You’ll take my room, and I’ll take Gran’s room. I’ll change the sheets right now. I always bleach and iron my sheets and keep two pairs at the ready, and you can rest assured that the bathroom is sanitary and disinfected on a regular basis. And if you do require any extra amenities, such as a toothbrush or soap, I’m most certain that I—”

“Molly, it’s good. I’m fine. It’s okay.”

My verbal rush comes to a halt. “I’m not terribly good at this. I know how to treat guests at the hotel, but not in my own home.”

“You don’t have to treat me in any special way. I’ll just try to be clean and quiet, and to help out where I can. You like breakfast?”

“Yes, I like breakfast.” “Good,” he says. “Me too.”

I try to change the sheets in my room by myself, but Juan Manuel will have none of it. We peel back Gran’s lone-star quilt and remove the sheets, replacing them with fresh ones. We do it together as he tells me stories of his three-year-old nephew back home, Teodoro, who always jumped on the bed when he was trying to make it. When he tells his stories, they come to life in my mind. I can see that little boy jumping and playing. It’s like he’s right there with us.

When we are done, Juan Manuel goes quiet. “Okay. I’ll get ready for bed now, Molly.”

“Do you need anything else? Perhaps a cup of Ovaltine, or some toiletries for the bath?”

“No. Thank you.”

“Very well,” I say as I leave the room. “Good night.”

“Good night, Miss Molly,” he replies, and then quietly closes my bedroom door.

I pad down the hallway to the washroom. I change into my pajamas. I brush my teeth slowly. I sing “Happy Birthday” three times to make sure that I’ve brushed every last molar properly.

I wash my face, use the toilet, scrub my hands. I take the Windex from under the sink and do a quick polish of the mirror. There I am, shining back at myself, spotless. Clean.

There’s no point dallying any longer.

It’s time.

I walk down the hallway and stand in front of Gran’s door. I remember the last time I closed this door, after the coroner and his aides wheeled out Gran’s body, after I cleaned the room from top to bottom, after I washed her sheets and remade the bed, after I fluffed her pillows and dusted every last one of her trinkets, after I took her house sweater off the hook behind the door, the last remaining stitch of her clothing I had not washed and held it to my face to breathe in the vestiges of her before putting even that into the hamper. The sharp click of this door closing was as final as death itself.

I reach out and put my hand on the doorknob. I turn it. I open it. The room is exactly as I left it. Gran’s Royal Doulton figurines dance statically in petticoats on her bureau. The ruffles on her baby-blue bed skirts remain pristine. Her pillows are plump and wrinkle-free.

“Oh Gran,” I say. I feel it, a tidal wave of grief, a wave so strong that it carries me to her bed. I lie down on it, feeling suddenly like I’m on a life raft lost at sea. I hug one of her pillows, put it to my face, but I’ve washed it too well. There’s no scent of her left. She is gone.

On the last day of her life, I sat with her. She was lying where I am now. I’d carried the chair by the front door—the one with her serenity pillow on it—and set it up beside her. A week earlier, I’d moved the television, setting it up on her chest of drawers so she could watch nature shows and National Geographic while I was at work. I didn’t want to leave her alone, not even for a few hours. I knew she was in great pain, though she took great pains to deny it.

“Dear girl, they need you at work. You’re an important part of the hive.

I’m fine here. I’ve got my tea, and my pills. And my Columbo.”

As the days passed, her color changed. She stopped humming songs to herself. Even in the morning, she was quieter, each thought belabored, each trip to the bathroom an epic journey.

I tried desperately to make her see reason. “Gran, we need to call an ambulance. We need to get you to a hospital.”

She’d shake her head slowly, her gray, feathery tufts trembling on the pillow. “No need. I am content. I have my pills for the pain. I’m where I want to be. Home, sweet home.”

“But maybe they can do something. Maybe the doctors can—”

“Shhhh,” she said whenever I refused to listen. “We made a promise, you and I. And what did we agree about promises?”

“Promises are meant to be kept.” “Yes,” she said. “That’s my girl.”

On the last day, her pain was worse than ever. I tried yet again to convince her to go to the hospital, to no avail.

“Columbo is coming on,” she said.

I turned on the television, and we watched the episode, or rather I watched and she closed her eyes, her hands gripping the bedsheets.

“I’m listening,” she said, her voice a mere whisper. “Be my eyes. Tell me what I need to see.”

I watched the screen and narrated the action. Columbo was interviewing a trophy wife who didn’t seem terribly distraught to learn that her millionaire husband was probably not the main suspect in a murder case. I described the restaurant they were in, the green tablecloth, the way her head moved, the way she fidgeted at the table. I told Gran when I knew Columbo was onto her, that look that showed he knew the truth before anyone else.

“Yes,” she said. “Very good. You’re learning expressions.”

Halfway through the episode, Gran became agitated. The pain was so bad that she was wincing and tears were running down her face.

“Gran? How can I help? What can I do?”

I could hear her labored breath. There was a catch to each intake, like water gurgling in a drain.

“Molly,” she said. “It’s time.”

Columbo continued his investigations in the background. He was onto the wife. The pieces were coming together. I turned the volume down.

“No, Gran. No, I can’t.”

“Yes,” she said. “You promised.”

I protested. I tried to reason. I begged her to please, please, please let me call the hospital.

She waited for my storm to pass. And when it did, she said it again. “Make me a cup of tea. It’s time.”

I was so grateful to have instruction that I leaped to my feet. I rushed to the kitchen and had her tea ready, in her favorite cup—the one with the pretty cottage scene—in record time.

I took it back to her and set it on the bedside table. I put a pillow underneath her so she was more upright, but no matter how gently I touched her, she moaned pitifully, like an animal in a trap.

“My pills,” she said. “Whatever’s left of them.”

“It won’t work, Gran,” I said. “There aren’t enough. Next week we’ll have more.” I begged her yet again. I pleaded.

“Promises…”

She no longer had enough breath to complete the phrase.

In the end, I relented. I opened the bottle and put it on the edge of her saucer. I brought the teacup to her hands.

“Put them in,” she said. “Gran—”

“Please.”

I emptied the rest of the painkillers into her tea—four pills, that’s all. Not enough. It would be five days before we could fill another prescription, five days of agony.

I looked at Gran through my tears. She blinked and looked at the spoon on the saucer.

I took it and stirred and stirred, until a minute later she blinked again. I stopped stirring.

With great effort, she leaned forward, enough that I could put the cup to her gray lips. Even as I fed her the liquid, I begged. “Don’t drink. Don’t…”

But she did. She drank the whole thing.

“Delightful,” she whispered when she was done. Then she eased herself back on her pillows. She put her hands to her chest. Her lips moved. She was speaking. I had to come right up to her lips to hear.

“I love you, my dear girl,” she said. “You know what to do.” “Gran,” I said. “I can’t!”

But I could see it. I could see her body stiffen, the pain seizing her once more. Her breathing became even more shallow and the rattle was louder, like a drum.

We’d discussed it. I’d promised. She was always so rational, so logical, and I could not deny her this last wish. I knew it was what she wanted. She did not deserve to suffer.

God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference.

I took her serenity pillow from behind me on the chair. I put the pillow over Gran’s face and held it there.

I couldn’t look at the pillow. I concentrated instead on her hands, a worker’s hands, a maid’s hands, hands so much like mine—clean, nails trimmed short, callused knuckles, the skin thin and papery, the blue rivers beneath them receding, their flow ebbing. Once, they extended out, her fingers grasping, reaching, but it was too late. We’d decided. Before they could reach anything, they relaxed. They let go.

It didn’t take long. When all was silent, I moved the pillow away. I hugged it to my chest with all my strength.

There she was, my gran. She looked for all the world as though she was fast asleep, her eyes closed, her mouth slightly open, her face serene. At rest.

Now, as I lie awake in her bed over nine months later, with Juan Manuel just down the hall, I think of everything that has come to pass, of these past few days that have turned my life upside down.

“Gran, I miss you so much. And I can’t believe I’ll never see you again.”

Count your blessings.

“Yes, Gran, I will,” I said out loud. “It’s so much better than counting sheep.”

‌SRI DAY‌