At least, that was what Ignacio told me. He cared about beauty because it was one of his most effective tools, and I could tell he was excited to see how I might make use of it when I came into my own.
He liked to keep me close, tucked under his arm, perched on his knee, a mini-me doll to draw compliments from his business associates. He liked to play the good papá, the family man drug dealer who was just trying to provide for his family. And he was, trying to provide for me, at least, his abejita, but barely for the son he viewed as a soldier and certainly not for the wife he didn’t love.
Outside our parents, before the Booths, we had no one.
Ignacio’s family was still in the Yucatan and Mamá’s family were originally from Puerto Rico, but her immigrant parents had died years ago.
So Dane and I had each other.
We were more than siblings. More than best friends.
Dane was everything to me, and even though I was only five, I tried to take care of him as much as he took care of me.
It was nice when Molly and Diogo stepped up to help us, though. If anything, it made Dane and I closer because we were happier.
Laughter became a daily occurrence in our lives, and I discovered for the first time that Dane had a belly laugh, deep and low like water rucked up from an old well.
I loved it, and I loved the people that gave that to us.
I should have known that it wouldn’t last long.
Nothing good ever did for the Davalos family.
* * *
* * *
I was six years old when my mother died.
Memory is a funny thing because I couldn’t remember her ever being much of a mother before her death, but as soon as she was killed, I could suddenly recall half a dozen ways she’d been good to me.
The way she worked oil through my thick brown hair then plaited it into braids that made me feel almost cute.
The way she collected cans and jars for me to use as vases for the many flowers I picked in the spring and summer.
The way she made maduros that tasted sweeter than candy, and how she let us eat them straight out of the hot pan, still dripping with oil.
How one time she had crawled into bed with me and Dane after a really bad fight with Papá and held us all night, singing sweetly and telling us stories of her own life when she was a girl.
I hadn’t known much about Ellie Davalos except that she was gorgeous like no one I’d ever seen before. Exotic and curvy and so unique I could pick her out of a crowd just catching sight of her almond eyes or big curls.
I hadn’t known much about my mother, but I remembered every single thing about the night she was murdered.
Because I was there.
I saw who did it.
And then, when she fell to the ground in her sullied yellow summer dress stained with blood, I was the one to catch her.
But first, I woke up to yelling.
Any child in an angry home has their own barometer for domestic disputes.
A low, thudding bassline of shouts meant I should try to go back to sleep.
The shrill wail of my mother passionately defending herself meant I should try to stop Dane from getting involved because one or the both of my parents might turn their anger on him.
My mother was known to hit as well, pretty yet mean as a rattlesnake when she went up against Ignacio.
That night the house filled with static, the air buzzing, thick and hot with summer heat and deep, vibrating anger.
“You’re a filthy cunt, you know that, Ellie?” Ignacio demanded coldly. “Only a fuckin’ bitch would sleep with a man for money.”
“It wasn’t for money,” she shrieked. “It was for one ounce of affection! When was the last time you touched me?”
“When was the last time you deserved it, hmm? When was the last time you made dinner for the family? The last time you played with Lila or even asked Dane how he’s been doing?”
I could hear them as clear as if they were in my cramped bedroom at the back of the bungalow with me, and no amount of layering my pillow, blanket, and stuffed rabbit over my head would muffle their fury.
“You sleep around like a goddamn whore,” Ignacio fumed. “And what do I do? I fucking let you because hey, I don’t wanna touch that snatch, and it keeps you away from the house, away from our kids, so I’m fine with it. What I am not fine with, puta, is you selling information about my fucking business.”
“You’re scum,” Mamá screamed, high and shrill like the whistle of our rusting tea kettle. “You’re fucking scum, and you think you’re king of this place, but you know what you are? You are king of shit all, Ignacio. Shit all!”