Shutter(71)

I watched the cops turn and retreat down the steps. “They’re gone now.”

“What are they looking for, Rita?” Mr. Bitsilly asked.

“Some photographs.” I looked at the three of them, their eyes on me like a weight. “It’s too late. I’ve turned them over. Now they probably just want me dead.”

Grandma began to cry. I shouldn’t have said it.

“I’ve been here praying for you.” Mrs. Santillanes pointed to her altar, which lit up the entire corner of her kitchen. Burning candles and bundles of sage ringed a small photograph of me and a larger saint candle that sat closest to the wall. The saint was a woman with dark coils of hair and a smooth, peaceful face. There were also various trinkets and a small handwoven basket in which lay an egg cushioned by dried herbs. I had not seen this before.

“What is going on here?” Mr. Bitsilly pointed at the altar.

“Those are my prayer candles. It’s the altar I made for Rita.”

“Who is this saint?” Grandma looked at the candle.

“That’s Saint Veronica, the patron saint of photographers,” Mrs. Santillanes explained. “She is the woman who saw Jesus struggling with the cross and offered him her veil to wipe the blood from his face. Are you Catholic?”

“I am,” Grandma admitted.

“I am not.” Mr. Bitsilly reached into the pouch around his neck. He took a pinch of herbs from inside and sprinkled it on the candles. We watched the flames flicker and grow. “But I’m willing to believe anything to keep you safe.”

“Wow. They really have you pegged.” Erma sat on Mrs. Santillanes’s kitchen counter, but I refused to look at her. “We have to go, Rita.”

I went to the door and looked out. No one was waiting. I turned. “I must take care of this. I know you’re scared, but I’ll be okay. I’ll be back, I promise.” I saw Grandma’s truck keys on Mrs. Santillanes’s table and snatched them.

“You can’t.” Grandma lunged at me in a panic, but Mr. Bitsilly held her back.

“We’re going to pray for you, mija.” Mrs. Santillanes made the sign of the cross. “It’s going to take all of us to bring you home.”





CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

f/11

I WASN’T SURE where I was going, but I had a feeling I’d had that dream about Erma and the Apothecary for a reason, even if Erma didn’t know what the reason was. Erma took over her perch in the passenger seat of Grandma’s truck. She looked like a small child. “Can we go to my house? I just want to make sure that my mom and my little girl are all right.”

“That is dangerous, Erma.” I stopped at the light.

“I never told anyone where my mom lives. She always comes to my house.”

I didn’t want to go there. We didn’t know if I was being followed. But I said anyway, “Where is it?”

Erma’s mom lived in the older part of town in a nice townhouse with a short white picket fence around the perimeter. Erma guided me with a pointed finger, the urgency of the moment trapped in her throat. I drove by slowly, trying to take notice of who or what could be watching us. There was not a parking spot in sight. I pulled up across the street in front of a red curb marking a fire hydrant. I glanced at Erma, finally quiet, staring out the window.

We watched as people in black walked in and out of Erma’s childhood home. I recognized Erma’s mother from the dream. She stood by the front door, smiling slightly as guests shook her hand, offering their condolences. We had somehow managed to show up to Erma’s wake. What were the odds? I wondered if Erma had known.

A little girl came out of the house with a plate full of carrots. We watched her hand a carrot to another little girl who was sitting on the porch by Erma’s mother.

“There she is.” Erma was raw with grief. Her weightless body began moving toward the house.

“Erma, stop.” I said the words out loud, which startled me momentarily. But there was no stopping Erma, so I gave in and followed her. I felt horrible for her. It didn’t matter to me anymore that she had dragged me into all of this. I saw the depth of her love for that little person sitting on that porch in a black dress, eating carrots on her grandmother’s lap. In a trance, I followed Erma’s ghost up the steps to her own wake.

“Mrs. Singleton?” I recognized the voice coming up from behind me and whirled around.

Garcia was staring right at me, even as he spoke to the grieving mother.

“I am so sorry for your loss, Mrs. Singleton. I’m Detective Garcia, with APD. I investigated your daughter’s case, along with my partner, Detective Vargas.” Vargas, silent as ever, nodded. I was frozen as Garcia gestured toward me. “This is Rita; she is with our crime lab. Isn’t that right, Rita?”

My heart in my throat, I offered Mrs. Singleton my hand and she squeezed it. “I’m Rita Todacheene with the crime lab, ma’am. I am so sorry for your loss.” Erma’s ghost was sobbing at my side, her longing for her daughter palpable. I was relieved she didn’t try to reach out and embrace the child—I couldn’t handle any more heartbreak and anger from her.

Mrs. Singleton was still holding my hand, and squeezed it again. “Are you all still investigating what happened to my daughter?”

“Yes, ma’am.” I glared at Garcia.