#EVEN JULIO IS PALER NOW LIKE

[michaelnotholden]

Literally what happened to their tan??? BOTH IN SUMMER BTW….. there’s literally no excuse for this I am so maddddd

[pengychan]

[Coco] The Bedside Ghost, Ch. 6

Title: The Bedside Ghost Summary: The bell falls but, instead of waking up in the Land of the Dead, Ernesto de la Cruz finds himself with a broken spine - and an unwanted guest at his bedside who claims he can let him have the sweet release of death, if he gives back what he took from him… Characters: Ernesto de la Cruz, Coco Rivera, Héctor Rivera, Julio Rivera, Imelda Rivera. Rating: T Status: in progress [This is the fic’s tag for all chapters up.]

[Also on Ao3]

A/N: Ernesto is a slow learner, but he learns. Eventually. As long as he's dragged into it kicking and screaming.

***

“Oh, Julio! There you are! She called, didn’t she? How is she? How’s Mexico City? Is she eating well? The poor thing, she looked so pale when she left, I should have packed her a better lunch!”

Julio couldn’t hold back a laugh at his sister’s barrage of questions, which had hit him the second he had stepped back inside the workshop. There had been a delivery to make, and that was usually something either Óscar or Felipe did, generally on rather odd bicycles and contraptions of their own making.

However, he had offered to do it that day, and they had not argued. He hadn’t told them that the main reason was that he wanted to stop at the inn to check if Coco had left a message, but of course they all had guessed.

“She did. All is well,” he said, lifting his hands somewhat defensively before his sister could speak up again, and she seemed to deflate, relief replacing the worry on her face. “She says she will be back soon, and that I should give Victoria a kiss from her.”

Rosita, ever the chatterbox, seemed slightly disappointed despite her relief. “That’s it? She said nothing else? Did she find out anything?”

“She didn’t say. I imagine she didn’t want to tell Paula too much,” he added.

“Oh, that does make sense. Paula is far too much into gossip.”

Says the pot to the kettle, Julio thought, and barely held back a smile. Still, she was not wrong. People talked, and the innkeeper talked more than most. “She was quite curious to know why Coco is in Mexico City, yes,” he admitted.

“You didn’t tell her, I should hope!”

“Of course not!” Julio protested. If there was something his mother-in-law had had enough of to last her a lifetime it was talk behind her back, so he’d stayed tight-lipped even when prodded for details. Paula clearly hadn’t been very satisfied with his evasive answers.

“I’m surprised her mother let her go, given… you know, history,” she had to him after passing on Coco’s message to him, lowering her voice. “I’m surprised you gave her leave to go, to be quite honest.”

Had he been more of a confrontational man, Julio might have told her to mind her own business. Instead, he’d simply shrugged - it was amusing how she assumed that Coco needed his leave to do anything; he would tell her when she returned and have a laugh about it - and thanked her for passing on the message to him.

“When she calls back, please do let her know that all is well at home,” he’d just asked in the end. Truth be told things were… not quite tense, but not entirely normal either. Mamá Imelda seemed more thoughtful than usual, even if she tried to hide it. Everyone could tell she was worried, even Victoria. Especially Victoria.

Given what she had endured, Julio couldn’t quite blame her - who could? - and yet he couldn’t help but feel slightly offended on Coco’s behalf, either. There was absolutely no doubt in his mind that his wife would be home soon. He got the feeling he should try to reassure her, but at the same time it felt like it simply wasn’t his place… and plus, he feared he’d end up saying the wrong thing. Maybe he should talk to Óscar and Felipe, and leave it to them. They were her brothers, after all.

“How is Mamá Imelda?” he asked, and Rosita sighed.

“I don’t think she slept last night,” she said. “And she ate very little breakfast this morning. Victoria hasn’t left her side for a minute. Maybe you should tell them both that Coco called and is fine,” she said, and Julio had to agree that yes, he should.

Besides, there was a kiss he had to give his daughter on her mamá’s behalf.

***

“Oh, Coco, you just missed him! He walked out if the door five minutes ago, after I gave him your message. If you’d called a bit earlier…”

“It doesn’t matter,” Coco said, trying to sound normal, but something in her chest ached. She would have given anything to talk to Julio directly, to hear his voice and tell him what she had found out without having to watch her words with Paula. If only she hadn’t spent so much time looking for that songbook… “I can just leave another message. It is not urgent.”

“Of course, dear. Are you well? You sound tired.”

Coco, who hadn’t slept a single minute - when she hadn’t been crying or grappling with her thoughts, she’d been struggling not to throw up; writing it off as just a reaction to those days’ upheaval was getting increasingly difficult - forced herself to chuckle. “The journey was more tiring than I thought. I have yet to catch up on my sleep, I suppose. When Julio drops by again, can you tell him that… I need to stay here a few more days than we thought?”

“Oh?” Paula said, and Coco could almost see her sitting more upright, the receiver pressed against her ear, gesturing for anyone around her at the inn - guests and staff alike - to be quiet. The innkeeper wasn’t a bad person, but she lived and breathed gossip to an extent even Rosita found exaggerated. There was a joke that, if you wanted word to get around in Santa Cecilia, all you had to do was telling Paula and begging her not to tell a soul.

More reliable than a radio station, Tío Felipe had said once. Even now, the thought made Coco smile a bit.

“And why is that?” Paula was asking, trying to sound casual and failing spectacularly at it.

We were wrong, part of her wanted to cry out, we were wrong about my papá all along, everyone was wrong and I will bring him home.

Except that of course she couldn’t, not unless she wanted all of Santa Cecilia to know about it. They would know, of course, everyone should - but not just yet. First, she had to find him. Then she had to come home, she needed to tell her mother everything while looking at her in the eye. First, they needed to grieve as a family. Then, and only then, the rest of the world could know.

“Oh, it’s nothing especially interesting,” she said, choosing her words carefully. “We just got a few things wrong. There was a misunderstanding I need to take care of before I return. Can you tell him that?”

“Of course. But what kind of--”

“I truly need to go. I believe someone else needs the phone. Thanks again for your help,” Coco said quickly, and put down the receiver with a sigh. Well, there went the first conversation of the day - and the easiest one. The next ones, she suspected, would be harder to get through.

With that thought in mind, Coco was relieved when she walked into the main hall to be greeted with a smile by Griselda. It was a tired smile, sure enough, but a smile nonetheless. Not having seen her since the outburst the previous evening, Coco had had no idea what to expect.

“Buenos días, señora Rivera,” she said. She did not ask if she’d had a good night; Coco suspected her puffy face told the whole tale.

“Coco, please,” she said, trying to smile. “I am… sorry for raising my voice yesterday. I promised I would not, but--”

Griselda shook his head. “It is all right. You were clearly upset.”

“Did he tell you what it was about?”

“No. He hasn’t said a word to me or anyone since yesterday.”

Coco wasn’t too surprised. Only the previous day, she would have felt sorry for him. Now she mostly felt numb. “How is he?”

“The fever has gone down. The antibiotics seem to be working, for now.”

The reply allowed Coco to breathe a little more easily. It would be easier to find her papá’s body if the only one to know where he was buried didn’t die on her. “Do you think I could talk to him? I will not raise my voice,” she added quickly when Griselda opened her mouth. The woman seemed to hesitate, then nodded.

“He’s on the porch. The doctor probably would not agree, but it is such a lovely day outside I didn’t have the heart to leave him cooped up in his room. But please, do not upset him.”

Coco nodded. “I’ll do my best not to. And, Griselda, have you… have you seen a red notebook anywhere?”

That caused her to blink. “A red notebook?”

“Yes. It is something that used to belong to my father. I thought I had brought it in my room yesterday, but it wasn’t there when I looked for it this morning. Perhaps I forgot it somewhere,” she added. She had an odd feeling about it - she was almost positive she had taken the songbook to her bedroom while she waited for the doctor visit to be over with - but she tried to ignore it. That was not the right time to get paranoid. “I thought I might have forgotten in the room where I listened to music, but it’s not there either. Could you…?”

“Of course. I will ask the staff if anyone has seen it - it might have been moved around while cleaning,” Griselda said, and smiled. “Do not worry about a thing. I will bring you some breakfast outside shortly.”

The walk to the porch outside took no more than a minute, but it seemed to last much longer. Ernesto was there, of course, just as Griselda had said, strapped to his wheelchair. Next to him there was a pole, with a bag full of clear liquid attached to it. A small tube ran from the bag to his arm where, she guessed, a needle had been pushed in a vein.

The wheelchair was turned towards the garden, and he didn’t move at all as she approached; he kept his eyes shut, head leaning back on the headrest. Only when her steps paused next to him did he open his eyes. If he was surprised to see her, it didn’t show.

“Not a very good night, was it?” he rasped. He looked even worse for wear than he had the previous morning, when at least he’d had a full night’s sleep. He was paler now, with dark shadows under his eyes, and he looked beyond exhausted. It was hard not to pity him.

Coco shook her head, and sat on a chair right by. She sat rigidly, but to her surprise it didn’t take too much effort to keep her voice quiet. Most of the anger was gone; now there was sadness, and a goal to focus on. “Not for you either,” she said. “How are you feeling?”

His lips quirked upwards for a moment in a humorless smile. “It’s kind of you to ask, all things considered,” he muttered. He paused and seemed to wait for a reply, a retort of some kind, but she just looked at him and, finally, he sighed. “It would be easier to handle if you raged. Good God, you’re just like him.”

“Shall I take it as a compliment?”

“... You should, yes.”

Coco felt a small smile forming on her face, despite the odd numbness she still couldn't quite shake off. “It feels nice to hear that. There weren’t many kind words for him as I grew up.”

Ernesto swallowed, and bowed his head. “I’m sorry.”

I know, Coco almost said, but didn’t. She let her gaze wander away from him, across the garden. Someone was watering the flower beds. “I’m not here for your apologies. I need your help,” she finally spoke.

“My help?”

“I want to bring him home. I need you to tell me where he’s buried.”

For a few moments, there was no reply. Coco turned to see he was staring at her, clearly surprised… and immediately looked away when their gazes met. It may have been guilt for stealing her father’s songs and never telling them about his death, of course; he had plenty to feel guilty and ashamed for. And yet something told her that there was more to it, and suddenly it didn’t matter how sunny and warm the day was: she felt very, very cold.

“... Ernesto? Where is my papá buried?”

“I…” he began, and paused. “Somewhere… somewhere here in Mexico City, I believe.”

“You believe?” Coco breathed. Did that mean he didn’t know? How was that possible? He was there when he’d died, how could he not know? It wasn’t right. She stood suddenly, heart hammering in her throat. “You mean… you weren’t there? You just ran off with his songbook and guitar after he died? You didn’t even stay long enough pay him your respects?”

Her voice rose, and she had to make a very conscious effort to lower it before Griselda, or someone else form the staff, came running. Ernesto shut his eyes, his head flinching back even as the rest of the body remained motionless. The realization - a dying man on a wheelchair honestly thought she was about to hit him - caused her to pause, Griselda’s voice echoing in the back of her mind.

Please, do not upset him.

Coco’s shoulders dropped, her anger already turning into a tired sort of indifference. Of course she wouldn’t hit him; what difference would it make? There was nothing she could do to punish him more than fate already had. It didn’t matter. Her anger didn’t matter.

All that counts is that I find papá and bring him home.

With a sigh, Coco crouched down in front of the wheelchair. Her hands reached to grasp his own, even though she knew he couldn’t feel her touch. They were almost skeletal, and cold.

“... Tío Neto.” It felt odd, hearing that coming from her own mouth again after so many years; it hadn’t been a conscious choice, and it clearly came as a surprise to Ernesto as well. He opened his eyes and looked down at her, his fear giving way to confusion.

“I wouldn’t know where to start looking,” Coco said. Finding a body with only a name would have been easy enough in Santa Cecilia, but Mexico City was so massive, and a quarter of a century had passed. “You must know at least something - when he died and where. I need to find him. So that he can--”

“Go home,” Ernesto choked out, cutting her off, and something spilled down his cheeks. Coco’s own throat tightened, but she forced herself not to weep. She just nodded and reached up with one hand to wipe the tears off his face.

“Yes. You told me so much about him, it felt like you were bringing him back to me,” she said, and smiled weakly. “And now that I know he wanted to return, I can’t leave without him. Please. He was your friend. If you want to put things right, help me bring him home.”

Ernesto opened his mouth as though to speak, but he seemed unable to; all that left him was a shuddering breath. He closed his eyes with a nod, and more tears spilled out. Coco reached up to wipe them with a wry smile. “So much for not upsetting you. Griselda is going to give me an earful if she sees you like this,” she said.

“Tell her you stepped on my foot,” Ernesto muttered, his voice a bit hoarse.

Coco wasn’t entirely sure who had snickered first, but it didn’t really matter. By the time Griselda walked out with a tray of food they were both cackling like lunatics, and she said nothing of it.

***

“You should have told her the whole truth.”

“You said I need her blessing to go. If she knew--”

“Do you really think she won’t figure it out? There is more Imelda in her than you think.”

“... I have seen that.”

“So you know she’s going to find out. It would be best if you told her now.”

Ernesto shook his head. “I… after she finds the body,” he said. “I told her what day you died, and what you were wearing. I told her you collapsed near the station. It will be enough. You must have been found quickly enough. There will be records, somewhere.”

Sitting at the window, Héctor sighed and seemed to be brushing some dust off his suit. “Right. You didn’t even bother to bury me. How much do you remember of that night?”

Not a lot, truth be told. He remembered everything clearly up to the moment Héctor had collapsed, of course. He remembered picking up the songbook, putting it in his pocket. He remember hiding both the suitcase and the guitar in an alley before going back to the body, looking around to make sure no one was there to see, knowing that he needed to be quick.

Everything after that was a blur, because he had never wanted to remember it. Even in his nightmares it would always be distant, fuzzy, confused like a dream within a dream. The dark all around them, the fear of being caught, the strain as he carried Héctor on his back like he’d done so many times before, when they were both children. Only that they were in dark, narrow alleys in Mexico City and not in the sunny countryside surrounding Santa Cecilia. Héctor had clung to him as a boy, laughing, as he carried him around after he’d twisted his ankle or got himself hurt in some other dumb way. That night he’d been limp and silent, but...

“Breathing,” Ernesto rasped, his eyes tightly shut. “You were still breathing.”

“Not for long, though. I was drawing my last by the time you put me down. Remember?”

Yes, he did. When he’d reached the dead end of a dark alley, with no windows in sight, Héctor’s breathing had turned into nothing but short, irregular gasps. He should have ran off to fetch a bottle of tequila before returning to complete the scene - a travelling musician with no name who had drunk himself to death in an alley, not the first or the last to do so - and he had, in the end… but not right away.

“You didn’t let go until I stopped breathing,” Héctor spoke, very quietly. “A stupid risk, like keeping the guitar and the songbook. Were you afraid I’d get up and walk away otherwise?”

Ernesto opened his eyes, fearing to see Héctor’s rotting corpse once again, but he still looked as he had the night he’d died. “I don’t remember what I was thinking.”

“But you do remember the last thing you told me.”

Look what you made me do, he’d said. With an inward shudder, Ernesto shook his head. No, she could never know that. She’d never give him any blessing to allow him to die.

“I can’t tell her,” he choked out. His voice came out as a plea, and Héctor shrugged.

“Suit yourself. That’s not what matters the most. As long as I can go home--”

He was cut off by the sound of a door opening, and someone stepping in. He saw Griselda’s reflection in the window, clean sheets in her arms, and frowned. “One would think you’re the only one to work here,” he muttered. “Isn’t it Inés’ duty to change the sheets?”

“Oh, I don’t mind. I’m not so old I can’t take on some more work,” Griselda said, stepping in. “Inés is looking for that red notebook la señora Rivera lost - I told her not to bother here.”

… What?

Ernesto’s eyes darted towards Héctor’s ghost, and saw his same thought mirrored on his face. He looked back at him in clear alarm.

The first thing of his she got in twenty-five years. She’d never lose it. Something’s wrong.

“A lost notebook,” Ernesto said slowly. “The red one?”

“Sí, señor. She said she had it in her room, or so she believed, but I helped search it and there was no sign of it. Nor in the living room where she was listening to your music yesterday. The rest of the staff hasn’t seen it either, but I have everyone looking and...”

She kept talking, but Ernesto was no longer listening. He stared out of the window, towards the grove of fruit trees where the previous morning - God, it felt like a years ago - he’d given Coco the songbook that had cost her father his life. He had never showed that songbook to anybody else before, and it had been only the two of them… except not really.

"Who’s there?" “Uh… it’s Ramírez, señor. From security."

Ernesto had wondered, distantly, how much had he heard; given that there didn’t seem to be much going on between that man’s ears, and that he fully expected to be exposed when all was said and done, he’d decided it didn’t matter. Except that now the songbook was missing.

"I don’t know why Armando insists I keep them around.” “Armando?” “My manager."

His manager, who paid for security out of his own pocket - making him, at the end of the day, their true employer. His manager, who had founded the record label that would keep the rights to the songs once he was gone… unless, of course, something unexpected happened to complicate things. Like, say, an uncredited songwriter’s family cropping up with proof.

“... Hijo de la gran puta.”

“Señor de la Cruz! What on earth was that fo--”

“Ramírez,” Ernesto cut her off, turning to look at her. “Where is Ramírez?”

“Ramí-- oh, Antonio? I believe he’s away, today is his day off.”

Oh, of course. Of course he was away, and the songbook with him. Looking for it in the mansion would be absolutely useless at that point… and finding it was now the least of his worries. “Chingada madre,” Ernesto muttered, causing Griselda to scowl and cross her arms.

“Señor de la Cruz!”

“You can wash my mouth with soap later,” Ernesto snapped. “Where is she?”

Griselda blinked, clearly taken aback by the urgency in his voice. “She… she was downstairs, last I have seen her. She’s been on the phone for the past hour, calling--”

“Tell her that she has to come here,” he cut her off. “Now.”

As Griselda hurried out of the room, Ernesto let his head let his head drop back against the headrest and shut his eyes. He was beginning to feel feverish again. “Mierda,” he snarled.

“You don’t really think she’s in danger, right?” the ghost spoke, and for the first time since he’d appeared at his bedside he sounded unsure - like the boy seeking reassurance as they hid from soldiers raiding Santa Cecilia during the Revolution, when he’d been his hermanito in all but blood. “Ernesto? You can’t really believe that stick in the mud would--”

“He has a lot to lose. You never know what someone in that position is willing to do until they do it,” Ernesto muttered, and scoffed. “You of all people should know it.”

A few moments of silence, then Héctor spoke again. “... What are you going to do now?”

Ernesto opened his eyes, and glanced down at his hands, resting lifelessly on the armrests. He could hardly look at them without disgust, but Coco had grabbed them only hours earlier without even flinching. He heaved out a long sigh.

“Move Heaven and Earth,” he heard himself saying. He waited for a retort, but none came.

Héctor didn’t speak again.

***

“So, you are looking for the unidentified body of a man who died in proximity of the train station, on 12 December 1921. Early twenties, with a goatee, dressed like a mariachi. Is that all correct?”

“Yes.”

“I see. And you believe it is someone you know?”

“I think it might be my father, yes.”

“Very well. I will pass this on so that someone can check in the archives - if he was found, there should be a record. But for information to be released to you, we’ll need you to come in person and fill out a form.”

“Of course,” Coco said. Having to go downtown to fill in paperwork may have been an annoyance in another scenario, but now it felt like a blessing in disguise: the mere thought of having to wait there for a phone call, doing nothing, made her feel like she was suffocating. “I’ll do that as soon as possible. What’s the address? Yes. Yes, got it. I’ll do that. Thank you very much for your help,” she added, and put down the phone with a sigh. Her hands, which had been firm enough while writing down the address, were shaking slightly now.

I may be so close. Please, let me find him. It’s all I ask.

She let her gaze rest on the phone again, and again she wished more than anything that she could call home and tell her family - her mother - what she had found out. If only they had a phone of their own! Tío Óscar and Tío Felipe had built a shoe-shaped one not too long ago, and perfectly functional according to them… only that it had been impossible to test because, taken as they were building the phone itself, they had forgotten that they still lacked a telephone line. The look on their faces when the realization had sunk in had made her laugh and, even now, the memory put a small smile on her face.

It didn’t last long.

“Señora Rivera?” Griselda’s voice rang out suddenly, but it was the sheer urgency in it that caused Coco to recoil. She turned to see her standing in the doorway. “I am sorry, but… el señor de la Cruz is asking to see you. I believe it’s quite urgent. Can you please come?”

“Oh. Sure,” Coco said, following her out of the room. “Did he say what it was about?”

“He… became agitated when I mentioned you can no longer find the notebook.”

The songbook, Coco thought. The sensation that she’d tried to ignore - something is wrong - grasped the pit of her stomach like a cold, cold hand.

She was running up the stairs before Griselda could add anything more.

***

“So you expect me to run away now?”

“I’m saying it would be best if you returned home.”

“I’m not afraid.”

“Then you’re an idiot. That songbook--”

“I don’t care about the songbook! I don’t care about royalties! I have to find my father. I’m ready to take a few risks--”

“But I am not!”

There was something oddly satisfying in the way she recoiled at his shout, but Ernesto had no time to enjoy it; he leaned his head back on the headrest, feeling as though the outburst had taken every ounce of his strength. Why did she have to go and insist on doing the exact opposite of what he told her to? Was it genetics? It had to be genetics.

Ernesto drew in a deep breath before he spoke again, taking advantage of her surprised silence. “Listen. You said you need to go downtown to search - so go. But take your belongings with you. Check into a hotel. I know a good one - I will cover all expenses, you can phone if needed - but don’t come back. Don’t let anyone else here know where you are.”

Coco’s surprise faded, leaving behind a grave expression that reminded him very, very much of Imelda. “You really think this could get dangerous.”

Ernesto nodded. “Yes.”

“What makes you so sure?” she asked.

“... I know how far a man can go when he thinks he stands to lose everything,” Ernesto found himself saying, and grimaced. “Even a rat becomes dangerous when cornered.”

She stared at him, and for a moment he saw something change in her expression, her eyes more focused, and he knew she was teetering on the brink of comprehension. Behind her, Héctor - a corpse, again - tilted his head on one side. The tendons in his neck groaned like old rusted hinges.

“This may be the last chance to come clean,” he warned, and Ernesto shook his head. When he looked again, he was gone.

“Perhaps I am just being dramatic,” he said, looking back at Coco, and to his relief that spark of comprehension faded without catching. “But I’d rather be overly cautious than careless. Check into a hotel, and under your husband’s surname. Please.”

After staring at him for a few moments, Coco nodded slowly. “All right. I will,” she said. Her hand went to rest on her stomach as she spoke, but he paid it no mind. “What about you?”

Ernesto blinked. “Me?”

“Your position is far more vulnerable than mine. If they decide that you’re the threat--”

“I will take the due precautions,” Ernesto cut her off. Not too long ago - hell, the previous day - he would have welcomed that chance to finally die; how and by whose hand would make no matter. But now was not the moment. There was something he needed to see through, and he would.

If you want to put things right, help me bring him home.

Let’s both go home, Neto.

Unaware of his thoughts, Coco was biting her lower lip - but, before she could say anything, there was a knock at the door and Griselda was opening it a fraction. She nodded at Coco. “Your cab will be here in a half a hour, señora,” she said, causing Coco to give a half-smile and turn back to Ernesto.

“You were never going to give me a choice on whether to go or stay, were you?”

Nothing personal. Your father never got one, either.

“My apologies. I think it’s the only safe option,” Ernesto replied, and nodded towards the door. “You should have enough time to gather your things. Tell no one where you’re going. Call to let me know where you are, but only speak to me or Griselda,” he added, and paused again. “And let me know if… when you find him,” he finished, his voice weaker than he’d have liked. If Coco noticed that, she didn’t mention it.

“I will,” was all she said, and she paused before reaching down to give his right hand a squeeze. He didn’t feel it, and desperately wished he could. “Thank you.”

Ernesto nodded, gaze low, and said nothing as she left. He drew in a deep breath and finally looked up at Griselda, who was still standing at the door. He smiled.

Well, that was Heaven. Not bad for someone who can’t lift a finger. Time to move Earth.

“I need you to get me something,” he told her. “A recorder, and two reels of tape.”

“Of course, señor. Is there anything else I can do?”

Ernesto’s smile widened. “Perhaps. Tell me, how good are you at keeping a secret?”

***

“What are you drawing, pequeñita?”

“Oh, it’s a secret,” Victoria said, and covered the sheet of paper with one arm before looking up at Rosita. She was still squinting; Imelda had noticed she did that a lot, especially when  drawing or trying to read. Her brothers did that before getting glasses, but Victoria insisted that her eyesight was per-fect-ly fine when asked. “It’s for mamá, when she comes back.”

This is me, this is you, and this is papá. I’ll give it to him when he comes back.

Imelda did her best to chase the memory away and focus on the shoe she was working on, but she found she couldn’t: it just stayed there in the back of her mind, refusing to leave.

Coco’s message had done little to put her mind at ease. There had been no word on what she’d learned, what news of Héctor Ernesto could possibly have to tell. Julio had returned saying that Coco had said all was well and that she would be back soon, and had proceeded to give Victoria a kiss on her behalf. It should have reassured her, but it had not; I will be back soon was a sentence she had come to hate. Soon wasn’t a day or time to look forward to; soon was nebulous and uncertain. Soon may very well turn out to be never.

Imelda hated thinking that way. She knew that it was was unfair towards her daughter - she could never, would never leave them behind - and yet she found herself unable to shake off the memories, unable to keep her mind form drawing parallels and making comparisons.

Give Victoria a kiss from me. I’ll be back soon.

Give Coco the biggest hug from me. I’ll be back soon.

“... Meow?”

Imelda - who hadn’t realized she’d just spent thirty full seconds staring at the sole of a shoe, not moving at all - recoiled. A pair of yellow eyes stared up at her, and she smiled. “Hello, Pepita,” she said, smiling faintly as the gray cat stretched on her work bench. It looked like she’d had enough of basking in the sun outside and had decided to pay a visit; Imelda supposed she should count herself lucky that, at least this time, she hadn’t brought a present in the form of a half-dead mouse or bird. She reached to scratch her behind the ears, and got a soothing purr in return. Pepita was very picky when it came to letting people pet her, something poor Julio had learned the hard way, and each time it felt like a privilege.

Imelda didn’t quite remember when Pepita had first showed up - she’d been an alley cat like many others, once - but she did remember the very first time she’d come through her window, let herself in, and curled up in bed with her: it had been during the lonely night when she had finally admitted to herself that Héctor was never going to return. Even crying had felt easier, with that purr in her ears and soft fur against her face.

The memory caused the smile on Imelda’s face to turn wistful. “You think I’m worrying too much,” she said, her voice low, and Pepita’s purr went up. She rose on her hind legs, resting her front paws against her chest, and nuzzled her chin. With a chuckle, Imelda reached to run a hair down her back, causing her to arch ecstatically under her touch. She was glad that Pepita was still around and well, despite the fact she had to be exceptionally old.

“You might be right,” she conceded, and saying as much aloud was a relief. Yes, all would be well. Coco was not her father; she’d raised her right. She would never leave her flesh and blood behind. She would be home soon, as she had said on the phone. She would tell her whatever it was Ernesto had to say - even now, Imelda forbid herself to speculate as to what it may be - or perhaps she would not, and that would be all right. Imelda didn’t truly need to know; the past was dead and buried, and only the present mattered.

Still, as she turned her attention back on her work, she resolved to stop by the inn herself the next day - just in case Coco had left another message for them.

***

After Griselda pressed the button with a loud clack, ending the recording, there were a few moments of complete silence. Ernesto could hear, distantly, the sound of birds outside; when she finally spoke again, her voice sounded strained in a way it had never been before.

“... Will that be all, señor?”

“I believe that about covers the worst I have done, yes,” he replied, eyes shut. His mouth was dry from all the talking, but he felt calmer than he’d been in a long time, like some weight - not all of it, but some - had been lifted from his chest. “Unless you wish me to record a long list of men and women I’ve slept with outside the sacred bond of marriage, that is.”

“Does she know?”

“The list of people I have slept with? I’d rather keep that private, if you don’t min--”

“This is no jesting matter,” Griselda said, her voice harsher. Ernesto opened his eyes to see that she was still staring at the reels, her mouth a tight line. “You have killed a man.”

I had to, it was the only way, part of him wanted to say, but he ignored the urge. He no longer believed it himself; it was never the only way. Just the easy one. “I am aware.”

“How much does she know?”

He saw no point in lying. “Everything I confessed in the first tape. Nothing of what I said in the second, though I expect her to guess soon enough. But by then, it shouldn’t matter.”

Griselda put the tape in question down next to the other, and absentmindedly brushed her hands on her apron as though to clean them; Ernesto faintly wondered if she was even aware of it. “You should have told her,” she said in the end.

“An excellent answer to a question I never asked. Now I need you to follow my instructions and keep silent,” he retorted. He would have much preferred to tell no one at all - two can keep a secret of one of them is dead, after all - but he couldn’t do much on his own. He needed help, and she was more trustworthy than most. It would have to do.

Griselda gave him a grave look. “I will,” she said, her voice tight. “And I will pray for your soul. But I must urge you to call for a priest and confess what you have done before the Lord, señor. Before it’s too late.”

“No. While your concern is moving, I need this ace to stay well up my sleeve.”

“It will. The secret of confession is sacred.”

“It’s not worth the risk.”

“For the sake of your immortal soul--”

“It’s not worth it,” Ernesto almost snarled, cutting her off, and let his head drop back again. The room around him seemed to spin, and he closed his eyes. He felt warm again, too warm, and his throat burned. He licked his lips, and found them dry. “I’m trying to keep her safe,” he rasped in the end. “I don’t need your prayers. I need your help.”

There were steps, the sound of water being poured, and then a hand was on his forehead, a glass against his lips. He drank, keeping his eyes shut, until the glass was pulled away. He heard it being put back down on the table beside him, but the hand stayed on his forehead.

“I’ll do my best,” Griselda spoke, her voice softer. “It’s time for your medication.”

“Later. Now I need you to--”

“It can wait a few more minutes. You still have fever. I have to tend to you first.”

Ernesto sighed, and opened his eyes to glance up at her. “Even now, you won’t let me die.”

She did not smile, but brushed some hair off his forehead. “Not without the last rites, I won't. Plus, I suspect you don’t want to go.”

Ernesto glanced to his left, where Héctor - the child he’d been - stood in a corner, still and silent. He’d said nothing throughout the confessions, not one word, and he didn’t say a word now either. He just looked at him, his expression somber beneath a mop of messy hair, and waited.

Let’s both go home, Neto.

“... No,” Ernesto found himself saying. “Not just yet.”

***

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