It wasn't hard for Ernesto to attract women half his age. He was a superstar, after all. Every woman in Mexico from the shy, blushing maidens to cantankerous old bats had to admit he had charm. He indulged himself plenty when he was younger. D-list actresses and chorus girls at first, fellow stars and socialites soon after. No one was out of his reach and, after years of stardom, the chase became dull. Just any pretty face wouldn't do anymore. There had to be a special something to catch his interest.
For this girl, it was her nerve. He found her at a party. No one knew who she was or how she got in, but she was gorgeous and charming, so no one bothered to call security. No one wanted to be the one to spoil the fun. Why chuck out such a lovely fixture?
She approached him as if she'd known him for years. "Señor de la Cruz," she purred, peeking through her curtain of raven waves, "I've been a longtime admirer of your work."
'Longtime admirer' she said. Not fan. Interesting. She spoke with the confidence of a queen, like she owned, not only the room, but the very dirt the building stood on. Maybe she did. Maybe she was an heiress who recently grew old enough to attend these sort of parties. Though she didn't act like it. Most young girls he met, even girls raised in celebrity, tripped over themselves and gushed about how they were "his biggest fan." He must have met at least a thousand "biggest fans" by this point. But this girl, with her cool head and sultry, low tones, intrigued him.
"Long time?" he said with a smirk. "For such a young, pretty thing, it can't have been that long."
"Oh no," she replied with a coy smirk of her own. "I've been listening to your music since I was a little girl."
"It's hard to imagine you as little," he said, his eyes drifting just south of her face.
"I've grown a lot since then."
"You certainly have."
They sat down at a table, just the two of them, in some dark corner of the room. They drank together, talked about music, and laughed at private jokes they managed to cultivate in only a few hours. The woman was charming and clever, to be sure, but it was the contrast which he found so intriguing. Her red dress and heavy make-up presented her as an experienced young woman, and the confidence in her voice only added to that. However, during their conversation, she'd glance away shyly and hide her face, like some blushing wallflower. But he'd catch her eye and the fire within and know it was only a game; a game they both knew they were playing.
So, she liked to play pretend. Well, he could pretend too. They could play like they were just two people, talking and getting to know each other. She'll play the shy, young lady being swept off her feet, and he'll be the dashing celebrity introducing her to a world she'd never known. But he knew what she wanted. And she knew what he wanted. So, soon enough, he suggested they move their conversation to somewhere more private.
She asked him not to make a fuss about leaving and saying goodbye. She had her reputation to think of, and she didn't want people to get the wrong idea. He obliged her. It was all part of the game, after all, and he didn't want to be a poor sport. He left with her unseen, without saying goodbye to the host, nor anyone else.
She hugged his waist and buried her face in his chest as they rode in the car to his hotel. He thought she might be tipsy. She did have several glasses of what he assumed to be gin, given the clear color. But then she started whispering, little ideas of what they could do once they got back, and he knew it was still all part of the game.
He held her close as they entered the hotel and went up to his room. She acted shy and hid her face around his security team. He dismissed them for the night. "Go now," he said with his usual charming smile, "Your ugly mugs are obviously scaring this sweet, young lady." His bodyguards laughed and told him good night.
She smirked and he smirked back. "You can take good care of me, can't you?" she cooed as she stroked his bicep. He felt himself stirring on the inside. He liked this game. If it ended well, he might be persuaded to play again.
Once up in his room, she set her bag on the floor, brushed her hair off of her face, and locked the door. "Don't want to be disturbed, do we?"
"Certainly not," he said, taking off his jacket. "Where should we begin?"
"Where indeed?" She tugged the end of his tie and it came undone.
He leaned in for a kiss. She laughed and pushed him onto the bed. Feisty one, eh? Wanted to get right down to business.
"You know Señor de la Cruz," she purred, crawling onto the bed with him, "you never asked my name."
"I'm sure it's the most beautiful name I'll ever hear." He tried again for a kiss, but she dodged it, throwing him a teasing smile.
"I'm actually a little disappointed." She moved her hands across his chest. "I thought there might be a chance you'd recognize me."
"And where have I seen you before?" He returned her playful smirk. "Apart from my wildest dreams, that is?"
"Don't you remember me, Tío Nesto?"
Tío Nesto? He hadn't heard that since…. No…
"It's me, Tío. It's little Coco."
The shock made his brain work stupidly slow. Coco… in his mind's eye, she was still just a little girl, barely older than a toddler. It couldn't be… but if he did the math, it was true. She'd be all grown up. And now, here she was in her red, harlot dress and her painted lips, lips he was so waited to feel on his body only a second ago.
"Coco?" he quickly backed away. "What are you doing? If you are who you say you are…"
"What's the matter, Tío?" She feigned heartbreak. "I thought I was your favorite little niña. Aren't I good enough for you? Don't you want me anymore?" She hiked up the hem of her skirt, revealing her tan legs. He chastised himself for noticing how shapely they were. He couldn't do this. Not with Coco. She was just a little girl. Not anymore.
She drove the skirt up higher, revealing the knife strapped to her thigh. His heart jumped. She leapt for him. He tried to get up, but in a flash, the knife was at his throat. "Don't scream," she said, her voice cold as ice. "If you try to touch me, I will cut you."
He gulped and felt his Adam's apple brush against the blade. "What do you want?"
"Answers," she hissed. She climbed on top of him, pinning him to the mattress. "Where's my Papá, Tío?"
"Coco, you're obviously confused. I know it must be hard to accept that he left-"
"Don't lie," she growled, pressing the knife in further. "I'm not my Mamá and I'm not my Papá. I can't be blinded by anger or seduced by the promise of success."
"You were just a baby back then," he insisted. With every word, he felt his skin move against the knife's edge. "Your memories are fuzzy. You can't remember what your father was really like."
"I said no lies," she nearly shouted. "I do remember. I remember everything, do you?" Tears started to drip from her eyes and splash onto the silver blade. "Do you remember the day my father said yes? I was right there, but you never thought a little girl might be listening in on your plans. My father told you no again and again. You promised him that he'd be home in a few months. You promised him he'd earn enough to provide for his family. He said yes for us. Does that sound like a man who would leave his family behind?"
The memory began to come back clear. He remembered this conversation. He remembered the many arguments he made, the near-begging he had to do. It was work convincing Hectór to go on this tour. On Hectór's part, he remembered the hemming and hawing, the "I don't think so," the "it's not a good time." But now that she brought it up, their conversation was interspersed with phrases like, "Coco, don't touch that. That's your abulea's vase," or "Don't you argue with me. You want your dolls to go in the cabinet the rest for the night? Just try it." Coco was there, wasn't she? In his mind, it was always just him and Hectór. How did she remember it all?
"Coco, the road changed him," he begged. "You don't understand."
"Did you think I wouldn't notice that his letters suddenly stopped?" Her tears came harder, but she never took her eyes off of Ernesto's face. "Did you think I'd never hear you singing his songs on the radio? Did you think I'd forget what his guitar looked like? That I wouldn't recognize it on every album cover you put out? No, a little girl couldn't see through your plans, surely."
She was beginning to break down. He wasn't sure if this was a good or bad thing. He took a chance, reaching for her wrist. "Coco, you don't understand. If you put the knife away…"
She ripped her hand away and cut a line in his cheek. "I said don't touch me," she snarled, bringing the knife back to his throat. "Where is my father? What have you done to him?"
"He ran off in the middle of the night. He only left a short note. I…"
"I won't believe the same lie you fed my mother. If you wanted us to believe that you shouldn't have used his songs and his guitar so brazenly." She gritted her teeth as she held the knife tighter and her tears carved streams through her make-up. "If he chose music over us, why would he give up his music, too? There's only one way he'd have left both."
Of course she'd recognize the guitar. Of course Hectór's family would have heard him playing his songs. Why hadn't he considered that before? There wasn't time to think of it. Hectór would have left forever with his songs if he didn't act fast. Besides, what could a little girl and a widow from the middle of nowhere do to Ernesto de la Cruz? "Coco, I don't know what you think I-"
"Did you do it like this?" she asked, holding the knife in a straight line across his throat. "Did you cut his throat? Push him in front of a train? Strangled? Gunshot? Stabbed?"
"Poison." The word just slipped out. He never meant to make a confession, but her suggestions were barbaric and he couldn't let her accuse him of being such a common savage.
"Poison…" she said the world slowly, as if testing it out. "So you admit it? You admit you killed him?"
"I killed him," Ernesto sneered. "I didn't want to do it, but he forced my hand. He didn't deserve his talent. He didn't have the ambition. He wanted to waste his life in Santa Cecelia, to be something as unremarkable as a father. Well now he's rotting in a pauper's grave just like he wanted."
"He was your friend," she nearly shouted, stiffening the knife against his throat. "He loved us. He loved you. How could you?"
"He made his choice. He had to pay for it."
Her tears overflowed. She leaned back and put a hand to her eyes. "I loved him," she whispered through her sob. "I loved him so much."
She's let her guard down. Stupid girl. "I understand," Ernesto said, his practiced, honeyed tone sliding easily from his lips. "Losing you father so young must have been hard. I know he loved you, but just think of what he'd say if he could see you now. What would he think of what his precious daughter has become?"
Her free hand moved to her mouth, revealing wide eyes rimmed with her running make-up. She removed the knife from his throat and it slipped through her shaking fingers.
Ernesto fought to keep his smug smile down. "You miss him. I understand." His hands traveled up her body. She was too lost in her grief to resist his touch. "I miss him too, but if you'd like to reunite with him, I'd be more than happy to oblige."
He grabbed her waist and flipped her onto her back. As she struggled to find her dropped knife, he clamped his hands around her pretty little neck. Her eyes bulged and she gargled as he tightened his grip. He could still feel her hands searching. He took his eyes off her just for a second to look for the weapon, but quickly found it lodged deep in his own throat.
He shot backward and she managed to roll out from under him. Her hands flew to her mouth and she scrambled to the other side of the room. She watched him, the whites of her eyes growing and tears still streaming down her face.
He could feel it. He could taste it. Blood poured down his throat and pooled in his mouth. He swallowed instinctively and felt his muscles and skin contract against the knife's blade. He fought his twitching hands. They wanted to take it out, but it was the only thing keeping his blood in. Not that it mattered. Take it out, he's dead. Leave it in, he's dead. That bitch killed him.
He reached for her, tried to get to her, but only found himself collapsed on the floor. He couldn't get up. He couldn't even call for help. It's her fault. How dare she? Who did she think she was? How could a nothing girl from the middle of nowhere even presume to murder the Ernesto de la Cruz?
The blood drained into his lungs and leaked from his neck. The world around him faded into darkness. When it came back into view, the girl had already changed out of her bloodstained dress. The room went black again, and when it came back, she'd gathered her things and begun climbing out onto the fire escape.
Soon, she was gone. She'd left him with nothing, not even the ability to call her a bitch as a parting shot. He was left alone with a knife in his throat and a growing red stain on the fluffy, white carpet. As his mind grew sluggish, he could only repeat one thought:
I am going to die.
I am going to die.
[-]
Mexico awoke the next morning to shocking and tragic news. Ernesto de la Cruz, their beloved icon, had been murdered in his locked hotel room. The only clues were an open window and an ordinary kitchen knife which was found logged in his throat.
The only person of interest was the mysterious girl who he'd been spotted with that night. No one knew who she was or got a good look at her face. His security team admitted that he brought her alone to his room, but this was nothing out of the ordinary for him. The people in the room next door said they heard a struggle and a young woman crying. They assumed it was a lover's quarrel and ignored it. A red, bloodied dress was found discarded in the trash behind a nearby restaurant. The police couldn't decide if she was a suspect or another victim. Either way, the hunt for her was on.
However, the news had yet to reach the fresh-faced young woman who'd boarded a train home early that morning. She sat beside an older woman and chatted pleasantly about their lives back in their small, rural towns. The old woman was a farmer's wife who was in town for a relative's wedding. She loved raising chickens and had named them all after young men in town who she deemed unworthy of her daughter. The young woman was learning to be a shoemaker, just like her mother, and had a sweetheart back home who she hoped to marry soon.
"Well then, what's a sweet girl like you doing traveling out here alone?" The old woman asked.
"I was visiting my tío," Coco answered. She turned to the window and breathed slowly as she tried to hide her moistening eyes.
"What's wrong dear?" The old woman offered her a handkerchief and a kind smile.
"Nothing, it's just," Coco dried her eyes and tried to brighten her face, "I hadn't seen him in a very long time."