instead of allowing the twins to push me out of the kitchen, I push back and wrestle the cyanide out of her
hands. Then I wake up and I realize—
If only I had pushed back. If only I had stayed.
I would never forgive myself, for as long as I live.
YOU’D THINK A person like that would want to die himself. And yet here I am. Here I am.
I NEED TO finish this story, Louis.
22
I REMEMBER NOT full scenes but fragments:
The twins’ bodies—they still feel soft and warm, so
alive
—pressed against my chest on the floor.
The maids arriving at the kitchen, hands over their mouths.
My knee hit the floor in the hallway as I fall in my haste and grief. I stayed there for a minute, as the panic escalated in the kitchen, until I remembered what I was supposed to do. I stood up
and ran out of the mansion and across the field, screaming Celeste’s name at the top of my lungs.
Whoever heard me probably thought that I had lost my mind. At the back of my head, a small voice whispered that Celeste was gone, I should be shouting Jessica’s name instead.
I remembered the burial place my sister made for herself. That was how I ended up crossing the garden and entering the cemetery. Someone was howling. I followed the sound, and found Jessica in
her black dress, her clothes stained with soil and flour and weeds, kneeling beside the grave. The grave had been dug open, and Celeste’s body—face and limbs mangled by maggots and
decomposition—lay visible in the hole.
The sight of my sister’s body, green and black like rotting fruit, deflated my rage. I fell on my knees and burst into tears.
“This is what happens in the end,” Jessica—Celeste—said, turning to me. “All bodies end up like this. The victim and the wicked decay the same way. Like they
don’t differ at all.”
HER FACE, TEAR-STREAKED, shone pink in the moonlight. “There has got to be something better after this life, don’t you think? Where we get our due? Otherwise,”
a sob gave her pause, “what’s the point?”
“You poisoned the twins,” I said, and a grief so great fell on my head that I felt rooted to the spot, even as I saw her move her hands, revealing Uncle Pedro’s gun that had
been there all along.
“I was going to shoot them,” she said, “but I can’t shoot them at the same time. That would mean turning to Paulo or Sam first while his brother watched. It was cruel. I
couldn’t do it.”
“So lacing a cake with poison makes it less cruel?” I said, the rage returning, growing.
“The twins love cake.” She smiled through her tears.
“You have lost your mind.”
“There is something better,” she said, “after this life.”
I lunged at her and placed my hands on her neck. She pulled the trigger in surprise, but the gun was aimed at the steel-colored sky, sending the bullet into the atmosphere. My ears rang. Her
grip on the gun loosened as my hands around her neck tightened. The gun fell to the ground now, liberated, but I focused on her neck. My own enraged scream sounded strange and foreign to my ears. I
watched her claw at my hands, watched her face change color, watched her eyes bulge. She believed in something better after this life but still fought the hands suffocating her. The body wants what
it wants.
It was Jessica’s body, Jessica’s throat, Jessica’s hands trying to pry my fingers loose, and right now Jessica was a stranger who broke into our home and killed my defenseless
brothers.
Someone was calling my name, but it was background noise, a whistle under the roaring current of my anger. I ignored it until I felt arms slip under my armpits and try to pull me away.
It was Louis. He had to pull several times before he was able to yank me away. We staggered backwards and landed on our sides, on the ground, the impact sending a tremor up my elbow, the soil
coating my arm and cheek. Later, I would find out that Louis was sent back to the main mansion because the talks fell apart
hands. Then I wake up and I realize—
If only I had pushed back. If only I had stayed.
I would never forgive myself, for as long as I live.
YOU’D THINK A person like that would want to die himself. And yet here I am. Here I am.
I NEED TO finish this story, Louis.
22
I REMEMBER NOT full scenes but fragments:
The twins’ bodies—they still feel soft and warm, so
alive
—pressed against my chest on the floor.
The maids arriving at the kitchen, hands over their mouths.
My knee hit the floor in the hallway as I fall in my haste and grief. I stayed there for a minute, as the panic escalated in the kitchen, until I remembered what I was supposed to do. I stood up
and ran out of the mansion and across the field, screaming Celeste’s name at the top of my lungs.
Whoever heard me probably thought that I had lost my mind. At the back of my head, a small voice whispered that Celeste was gone, I should be shouting Jessica’s name instead.
I remembered the burial place my sister made for herself. That was how I ended up crossing the garden and entering the cemetery. Someone was howling. I followed the sound, and found Jessica in
her black dress, her clothes stained with soil and flour and weeds, kneeling beside the grave. The grave had been dug open, and Celeste’s body—face and limbs mangled by maggots and
decomposition—lay visible in the hole.
The sight of my sister’s body, green and black like rotting fruit, deflated my rage. I fell on my knees and burst into tears.
“This is what happens in the end,” Jessica—Celeste—said, turning to me. “All bodies end up like this. The victim and the wicked decay the same way. Like they
don’t differ at all.”
HER FACE, TEAR-STREAKED, shone pink in the moonlight. “There has got to be something better after this life, don’t you think? Where we get our due? Otherwise,”
a sob gave her pause, “what’s the point?”
“You poisoned the twins,” I said, and a grief so great fell on my head that I felt rooted to the spot, even as I saw her move her hands, revealing Uncle Pedro’s gun that had
been there all along.
“I was going to shoot them,” she said, “but I can’t shoot them at the same time. That would mean turning to Paulo or Sam first while his brother watched. It was cruel. I
couldn’t do it.”
“So lacing a cake with poison makes it less cruel?” I said, the rage returning, growing.
“The twins love cake.” She smiled through her tears.
“You have lost your mind.”
“There is something better,” she said, “after this life.”
I lunged at her and placed my hands on her neck. She pulled the trigger in surprise, but the gun was aimed at the steel-colored sky, sending the bullet into the atmosphere. My ears rang. Her
grip on the gun loosened as my hands around her neck tightened. The gun fell to the ground now, liberated, but I focused on her neck. My own enraged scream sounded strange and foreign to my ears. I
watched her claw at my hands, watched her face change color, watched her eyes bulge. She believed in something better after this life but still fought the hands suffocating her. The body wants what
it wants.
It was Jessica’s body, Jessica’s throat, Jessica’s hands trying to pry my fingers loose, and right now Jessica was a stranger who broke into our home and killed my defenseless
brothers.
Someone was calling my name, but it was background noise, a whistle under the roaring current of my anger. I ignored it until I felt arms slip under my armpits and try to pull me away.
It was Louis. He had to pull several times before he was able to yank me away. We staggered backwards and landed on our sides, on the ground, the impact sending a tremor up my elbow, the soil
coating my arm and cheek. Later, I would find out that Louis was sent back to the main mansion because the talks fell apart
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