The door creaked open, and Mother stepped inside, wearing her silk robe and her patented; I-Know-You're-About-To-Lie-To-Me face.
She took one look at me and sighed like she was preparing to deal with a stubborn toddler. She sat on the edge of my bed, smoothing her robe over her knees.
The mattress dipped under her weight, sending a puff of María José's scent into the air again.
Torture. Absolute torture.
"So," she said briskly. "What's wrong?"
"Nothing," I said automatically.
She arched one sculpted eyebrow. "Right," she said dryly. "And I'm the Easter Bunny."
I rubbed the back of my neck, feeling five years old under her gaze.
"It's complicated," I muttered.
"Try me," she said, folding her hands in her lap.
I stared at the ceiling. How much could I even tell her without blowing the entire operation?
But then she asked, voice gentling, "Were you serious? About what you said Rosa did to María José?"
I stiffened.
