The sounds of the house began to grow dimmer. The footsteps and shuffling of feet diminished; doors were closed, some of them creaking on their hinges; the springs in old mattresses squealed in protest and a window rattled shut. Outside, crickets played their music and the wind caressed the flowers of the purple jacarandas.
When the house was silent, she went to Ulises’s room. He had not locked the door, so there was no need to knock. She slipped inside and stood by the bed, watching him in the moonlight, holding her breath and biting her lip to keep herself from shivering. When he opened his eyes and looked at her, her first instinct was to bolt, but she managed to force herself to remain firmly in place.
“What time is it?” he asked, drowsy with sleep.
“Past midnight.”
He stretched his arms, brushed the hair away from his forehead, and smiled. The knowing gleam she glimpsed in his eyes steeled her resolve. It was a conceited, sly look. Like he’d expected Inés might slip into his room in the darkness. Or he expected her aunt Perla to make a late-night trip to his bedroom. Either way, she felt like shattering his pride.
“I know you’re a fraud,” she said.
“What?” he asked, as if she’d tossed a bucket of icy water in his face.
He reached for the lamp near the bed, but she swatted his hand away. “No lights. And keep your voice down unless you want them to find me here with you. It wouldn’t look too good, would it?”
He frowned but pulled his hand back. “You’re a mad girl. I’m—”
“A fraud. Don’t bother denying it. I found the letters.”
“I don’t know what letters you’re talking about.”
“In the lining of your suitcase. If you try to play innocent one more time, I’ll scream and have my aunt here in a minute.”
He sat up, wide awake, and stared at her. She almost lost her nerve and looked down, but the memory of Aunt Perla’s recriminations gave her courage. She was not going to wither inside this house.
“I may send postcards or letters, but that’s not a crime. What were you doing looking in my suitcase anyway? Who gives you the right to go through my things?”
His rebuke had no effect on her, since she knew she was correct. “You write to many women,” she insisted.
“Iwroteto many women, before I settled on your aunt. But now that my heart is determined—”
“You wrote to them under different names. Ulises Linares. Ulises Orozco. Luis Cacho. Armando Zozaya. Nobody does that unless they’re up to no good. Your heart is not set on anybody. You asked for money in the letters. You con women, don’t you? Don’t play innocent, you con them, right?”
Her words seemed to needle him, and he replied with a voice that was insolent and smug. “Yes, I con them.”
“Using the lonely hearts ads.”
On the night table there was a pack of cigarettes, and he struck a match and lit one. Then he leaned back against the headboard of the bed and watched her with careful eyes as he took a drag. “Yes.”
“Do you make much money out of it?”
“Some. I make a living.”
“Your clothing is expensive.”
He grinned, pleased, maybe even amused at the line of questioning. “It ought to be. It’s meant to impress people. When someone thinks they’re speaking to a man of substance, they never question the minor discrepancies.”
“You’re not a photographer at all.”
“I know photography. But I’m not employed at any studio.”
“You ask them for money in your letters, but you came here in person. Why?”
“I thought there might be something worth stealing here,” he said smoothly.
Something more than a hundred pesos,she thought.Something big.She was almost afraid of continuing their conversation. Not because what they were discussing was wicked—though it was, and if she confessed to the priest he would die of shock—but because of the thrill that ran down her spine.
“You think you could steal my aunt’s money?”
