Page 81 of Gave Proof Through the Night

“Well.” Jeremiah rubs the back of his neck. “He’s not actually my grandfather. He’s my father’s cousin’s father.”

“If you think American family trees are confusing,” Dante says, “Mexican ones are a whole other level.”

“Technically my grandfather is Jeremiah’s great-uncle,” Nacho says.

“And my dad is Jeremiah’s first cousin once removed,” Dante adds.

“And we’re second cousins,” Nacho finishes, like this settles everything.

“But we just call each other primo,” Jeremiah says. “And out of respect, even though he’s technically a great-uncle, I call their grandfather Abuelo.”

“Same as how he calls our dad Tío,” Nacho says. “Even though in English, that’s just cousin.”

“Okay.” I hold up a hand. “You’re right. It’s confusing.”

“Much simpler to just use uncle and grandpa for anyone older than you,” Jeremiah concludes, like that settles things.

I turn to him. “That doesn’t change the fact that you didn’t know his birthday.”

“Hey.” He holds both hands up. “I met that side of my family seven months ago.”

“It’s true,” Dante says. “He’s been hiding from us his whole life.”

Jeremiah flicks a chip at him across the table. Dante doesn’t even flinch, just plucks it off his shirt and eats it.

“Next year,” Nacho says, turning to me. “We should have a party at Abuelo’s ranch. Big cake, for Abuelo and you both. He always says the fireworks are just for him.”

“Same,” I say, and something in my chest goes soft and stupid for half a second, thinking of my own dad, who used to say the exact same thing to me every birthday.

Nacho promises, with total conviction, to show me what real salsa tastes like the next time I’m out his way.

Dinner is tasty and the conversation easy. Nacho does judge the salsa. And the carnitas. And the rice. He does, however, concede that the fresh-made tortillas are good. Jeremiah orders a plate called the El Jefe Platter, and I think his eyes are too big for his stomach, but he polishes off the whole thing.

Somewhere between the entrees and the flan, Dante leans back in his chair and tells Jeremiah, “Once you’re settled in California, you have to make it to Sunday dinners when you can get away. I know LA is a little far. Are you staying in Irvine?”

“Newport Beach,” Jeremiah says, dipping his spoon in his flan he absolutely would not share with me. I had to order my own.

“Oooh.” Dante whistles low. “Newport Beach. Ricachón.”

“What does ricachón mean?” I ask.

“Moneybags.” Color climbs the back of Jeremiah’s neck.

“Just promise us you won’t be driving around PCH in a Cybertruck,” Dante ribs.

“I’m not going to suddenly turn into a snob.” Jeremiah points his spoon at him. “Enrique’s the one who married an actual heiress.”

“That’s fair,” Dante concedes.

An heiress. My ears prick up before I can stop them. An actual heiress would be so much more useful on a job than inventing one from scratch, the way we did with Miss Capucine de Montfleury.

No. Absolutely not. This is the last job. There is no next job. There is no heiress to recruit, real or invented, ever again.

“What do you mean, heiress?” I ask, mostly to drown out my own brain.

“You’ve heard of January Madison?” Dante says.

“Who hasn’t?” I snort. She’s the poster girl for the color pink and small dogs in diamond collars. Also, more to what she’s supposed to be famous for, Madison hotels are in every city.