Poor, poor Héctor… All of you are so concerned about him after the last chapter. And I honestly don't blame you. But as worried about him as you might be, I think we all know that there is at least one person who is more concerned than the rest of us put together.
She ended up waking up earlier than she intended, though Imelda managed a bit more sleep than the night before. Not because the pallet tucked into her office proved to be more comfortable than Rosita's bed. It was because she left the door open a crack like she did when Coco was young and didn't like the dark and quiet of her room at night. Whenever Imelda woke with the feeling of dread that tried to wrap around her long-absent heart, the sliver of golden glow from the room down the hall reassured her enough for the woman to drift back off for a little longer.
And she was too worn out to dream. Or at least too worn out to remember them. That helped.
But when she woke up for the final time in the early morning, Imelda easily realized that she wouldn't be drifting off again. So she pushed herself up and quietly slipped towards her room to collect some clothes for the day.
Victoria looked up briefly from her project as she stepped into the room, but she didn't move from the chair that she'd occupied the entire night. Different pieces of purple fabric were scattered across her lap along with a few spools of thread. In her hands was Héctor's shirt.
There was no way to salvage it completely. Not when one sleeve was completely gone and with the large rips in the fabric. But Victoria clearly took up the challenge valiantly. She'd pulled out some of the unraveling seams to detached the remaining sleeve, letting her use the extra material to patch the tears and fraying edges. But for the back, she needed more fabric than what she could salvage. So Victoria had apparently tried out a variety of available materials before finding one close to the right shade, a silky fabric that she was sewing in place at that moment.
His shirt would end up more as a vest whenever Victoria finished, but it would at least be in better condition and should hold up for a while. Just because they specialized in shoes didn't mean that the Rivera women didn't have decent skills with cloth.
"Rosita suggested I could work on this," Victoria said quietly. "It was something that needed to be addressed and it helped pass the time."
Imelda gave her a nod of acknowledgment, but didn't ask if there were any changes. Her granddaughter would tell her if there were. She didn't ask and she didn't step over to check herself. Not this time. Instead, she headed over to her wardrobe and collected her outfit and boots, trying to only stare for a moment or so at his silent and lifeless figure in her bed.
Three days. This was the third morning since Día de Muertos. The third morning since Héctor appeared back in their afterlives. The third morning since the Final Death tried to claim him. The third morning with no sign of improvement.
She hurried down the hall to the bathroom, steeling herself with each step. Maybe she was wrong to believe that there was a chance. Maybe Dr. García's remarks that Héctor may never wake up would turn out to be true. Maybe this would be it. Maybe he would never get any better.
Imelda closed the door and slipped out of her nightgown. Moving without thought, she pulled on her dress and boots, splashed water on her face, and then started to work on brushing her hair. Her hands went through the motions automatically as her mind confronted the possibility.
He may never wake up. He wasn't getting better so far, not enough to really notice for certain. Perhaps Coco and Miguel would keep his memory alive, but it was very possible that he'd faded too much. He may not be able to come back, no matter what either of them might want. She might have to accept that Héctor would stay like this for the rest of his afterlife.
She still had hope. She wouldn't give up on him completely. Not again. Never again. But it was time to start considering the alternative possibilities.
Not the worst-case scenario. Not Coco forgetting him at any moment, a short reprieve of a few days. No, she wouldn't consider that. She refused to let that be a possibility.
But if Héctor couldn't recover from what happened, if he remained trapped on the edge of the Final Death, then this may be all she would ever have. No chance to say anything to him that he would ever hear. No chance to listen to him, to finally listen to him like she should have decades ago. All she would have would be a silent, still, lifeless shell of a man.
She silently started weaving her purple ribbons into her hair, the complicated pattern she favored almost instinctive after so many years. She didn't even have to think about it as her fingers moved through the strands, ignoring the tightness in her ribcage or the haunted expression she glimpsed in the mirror.
If Héctor never woke up, they would still take care of him. No matter what mistakes he'd made, he deserved that. He didn't abandon them. No matter what she believed for decades and still struggled to remember, Héctor didn't want to abandon any of them. And she wouldn't abandon him now. They wouldn't leave him alone.
Imelda looked in the mirror. Her hair, dress, and face were all neat and fixed up. She looked put together and in control. She looked ready to handle whatever the day might bring. And if she looked like it, then she should be able to manage.
She could handle this. Whatever happened, she could handle this.
She heard floorboards creaking overhead as she stepped out of the bathroom, indicating that the rest of the household was beginning to stir. And that meant that she should probably head downstairs and start breakfast. They needed to keep up the routine, keep going like always. Rosita would probably be down shortly to help, but Imelda could at least get started. From there, they could work on figuring out who would be in the workshop and who would be staying with Héctor.
They could handle this. She could take care of everything.
But as she reached the ground floor, a knock on the door made Imelda stiffen. A second unexpected visitor to their home within a few days made her uneasy. Helena was nice enough, but it was too early to deal with shocking and emotional revelations. She wasn't eager for more.
On the other hand, she was still the head of the household. She needed to deal with this before the rest of the family came down. Besides, she was already dressed and ready for the rest of the day. It wouldn't be right to make whoever it was wait until everyone else could change clothes.
She could handle this.
But as surprising as it was to find a departures agent on their doorstep a few days ago, opening the door and seeing the police there was even more so. At least Helena's arrival made a little sense because of Miguel showing up that night. The police force always sent a few of their people to the Marigold Grand Central Station for Día de Muertos because of the vast numbers of people moving through the place, but her mind went blank on why the two uniformed men would be at their home. Did they come to apologize for not finding the boy that night and leaving her and Pepita to do all the work? It was far too early in the morning for this and even if she slept a little better, Imelda was too tired to try and puzzle this out.
At least they looked mildly apologetic as they took off their hats, smiling in greetings.
"Señora Rivera?" asked the one on the left, his jawline lined with blue and silver starburst patterns and his black mustache neatly trimmed.
"Sí," she said evenly. "How can I help you?"
"My name is Officer Márquez," said the one on the right, the one with gray hairs scattered across his head. His facial markings were purple and blue swirls that encircled his eye sockets and dots that ran across his chin. "This is my partner, Officer Inglesias. You are the family for the living boy who crossed over on Día de Muertos, correct?"
"Miguel is my great-great-grandson. And he's back home, safe and sound," she said evenly. "What's this all about?"
Straightening his uniform slightly, Officer Inglesias said, "We apologize for the early hour, but we didn't want to delay proceedings any longer than they already have. If it wouldn't be too great of an inconvenience, Señora, would you be willing to accompany us down to the station? We have a… complicated situation and as a representative of the injured party, we thought it would be best for you to come in and make your statement. We're still working out the legalities on some of the charges and any information you might have on events could help."
"What charges?" Imelda asked sharply. "What is going on?"
"We finally got around to dragging Señor Ernesto de la Cruz out from under that bell last night," said Officer Márquez, not dancing around the issue. "He's in our custody and is being charged with Assault on a Minor and will likely be facing the highest sentence possible for the crime due to the nature of the minor. We're also attempting to bring up other possible charges based on the testimony of those who witnessed the broadcast and heard what was said that morning." He shifted his hat in his hands briefly. "Like a possible charge of Murder in Life Without Conviction. We're also trying to see if there's something on the books that we can charge him with for attempting to murder a living child. Committing murder or attempting murder in the Land of the Dead isn't something that comes up very often…"
As soon as he spoke that man's name, Imelda went stiff and cold. Cold enough to burn. Anger, hatred, and protective fury remained locked up in a block of ice. Trapped and waiting.
That man… He was the one responsible for so much pain for so many people. One act of betrayal shaped generations of her family. And when one murder wasn't enough, he tried to kill Miguel to keep his secret. Music wasn't a curse on her family. It was him.
No more. Ernesto de la Cruz hurt enough of her family. She wanted to be certain that he would face justice for everything he took from the Rivera family.
"You want me to come down to the station," she said evenly. "Very well. Will I have a chance to speak with him?"
"I'm not certain that's…" began Officer Inglesias before his eyes widened, apparently taking notice of her expression and trailing off.
Awkwardly, Officer Márquez said, "We'll see if something can be arranged, Señora."
Approaching footsteps made Imelda glance behind her. Oscar and Felipe were walking towards her with mirrored expressions of confusion and concern.
"Imelda?" asked Oscar quietly.
"I'm going out for a while," she said, something in her tone making both of her brothers cringe uneasily. "Keep an eye on everything while I'm gone. I'm counting on you."
Hesitating a moment, Felipe said, "Okay. We'll let—"
"—everyone know where you've gone—"
"—and make sure that Victoria gets some sleep—"
"—and that we start some breakfast—"
"—and the two of us will keep watch upstairs."
Oscar nodded, the pair of them giving matching reassuring smiles. Imelda knew they would do their best. She remembered how much they helped when she first started her business, watching Coco and keeping her distracted while she worked. She could always depend on the two of them. Unlike some people, they never let her down or abandoned her.
No, that wasn't fair. Imelda gritted her teeth and wrestled her mind away from that familiar trail of thought. That was just old anger and old reactions. That was ninety-six years of false assumptions coloring her thoughts.
But regardless, she could count on Oscar and Felipe to take care of everything in her absence. So Imelda gave them both a quick nod and turned, stepping out the door and joining the two officers.
"Miguel," said Abuelita, interrupting his breakfast and making the boy turn his head towards her. "May I talk to you before you go to school?"
Her tone was unusual, a tension in it that he didn't recognize and didn't like. The simple request made him freeze, his appetite vanishing as dread and mild panic started twisting in his stomach. He pushed himself away from the table. His mind raced desperately as Miguel followed her towards his room.
The strange tone in her voice terrified Miguel because he didn't know what it meant because he couldn't remember Abuelita ever sounding like that. One possible answer flashed through his thoughts like lightning. She changed her mind. Abuelita changed her mind and everything was going back to the way it used to be.
He tried to calm down as his breathing slipped into panicked gasps. He should have known. He should have known it couldn't last. Now Abuelita would tell him no more music. And she would take the guitar. He would hate it, but he could live with that. He could. Honest. But the worst part would be that she would tear the foto again and everyone would forget about Papá Héctor. It would be like Día de Muertos never happened.
It was okay. He silently reassured himself as Abuelita finally reached his room. It would be okay. Even if no one else in the family wanted to remember, he and Mamá Coco would. No one could make him forget. And even if she tore the original foto, Miguel now had six copies hidden in different spots. The one under his pillow and the one tucked into one of the books he'd hidden under his bed were the closest, but not the only ones. His family wouldn't be able to find them all and he could always make more copies as he saved up more money. As long as he kept at least one, he could find a way to sneak it on the ofrenda. Papá Héctor would be safe.
It was okay. Maybe if he repeated it in his head enough times, he would even believe it.
Especially since his current silent panic wasn't that helpful.
Sitting on the edge of his bed, Abuelita said, "Miguel, you know that your family loves you and that we've always tried to do our best to take care of you. Anything we've done, we've done to protect this family."
Miguel's eyes flickered briefly to the guitar in the corner and then to his pillow, a copy of the photograph hidden so close to her. This was it. This was the moment that she took everything back, undoing everything that they'd gained. He should have known. He should have known it would happen. Anything else was an impossible dream. He blinked rapidly as his eyes burned, threatening to spill over already.
No music. That man deserves to be forgotten.
She wouldn't make him forget Papá Héctor though. His memory would be safe. She couldn't take that.
"When we found your hiding place in the attic, when we found your ofrenda for that músico, I was afraid that you were heading down the same path that Mamá Coco's papá took," she said.
"Papá Héctor," said Miguel firmly. "He has a name, Abuelita. Even if everyone else forgot it."
He saw a flicker of anger in her expression. No matter how much Mamá Coco may love and want to talk about him again, Abuelita didn't like Héctor. She was still mad. She had spent her entire life hating him and she clearly wasn't forgiving the man yet. Abuelita only allowed his memory back in the household because Mamá Coco wanted him. As long as Mamá Coco was aware and communicating with everyone again, she would stop discouraging her mamá from talking about him. But Miguel knew she didn't like or trust the man even in death and didn't want to think about him.
Which was probably why she must have changed her mind. Which was probably why music was about to vanish again, the foto torn, and man ignored. It made perfect sense. Miguel's hand wrapped around his wrist, his eyes dropping briefly towards the floor.
"I was trying to protect you, my precious Miguelito," she continued. "I tried to do what Mamá Imelda would have wanted. But perhaps not all her decisions were perfect and she might have made some mistakes. And so have I."
She shook her head tiredly. Confusion was gradually overcoming Miguel's panic. If this was the lead up to the return of the music ban, she was taking the most indirect path possible.
"I'm sorry, míjo," she said. "You shouldn't have kept secrets from your family, but I shouldn't have destroyed your guitar that evening."
His guitar.
The makeshift instrument that he cobbled together with scraps and pieces of whatever he could find, painstakingly working on it over time until it resembled the beautiful guitar that now rested in his room. He'd loved it, putting so much effort and devotion into crafting something that let Miguel create music and connect to his idol. Watching Abuelita smash it into splinters and the anger and hurt its destruction caused now seemed so long ago. Compared to everything else that happened that night, everything he found and everything he nearly lost, it didn't seem as important anymore.
"I know why you did it, Abuelita," said Miguel quietly. "It wasn't right and it wasn't fair, but I understand. And you're sorry now. You know it was a mistake. And you won't break Papá Héctor's guitar too, right?"
"No. That would break your Mamá Coco's heart. I already told you that you may have music, Miguel. You may play it as long as you don't get carried away," she said. "As long as you don't start following that man's footsteps and start putting your ambitions first, everything should be fine."
Miguel's brow furrowed and his mouth twisted into a frown, the boy turning away as he picked up his backpack. He couldn't meet her eyes. Not if she kept saying things like that.
He couldn't tell her the truth. Not when he learned it in such an impossible way. But she would never forgive Héctor even if they were allowed to talk about him now. Not unless she was forced to rethink things.
He couldn't tell her everything he knew, but he could at least talk about stuff the rest of the family could figure out.
"Abuelita," said Miguel quietly. "You read those letters. And you heard Mamá Coco's stories. Did any of those make him sound like the kind of man who would abandon his family because of ambition?"
"He did. We all know that he left and never came back," she snapped. "Nothing we read will change that fact."
"Papá Héctor loved them. He loved Mamá Imelda and Mamá Coco so much and missed them when he was gone. You can see that in every letter, the ones he wrote for both of them," said Miguel evenly, still not meeting her eyes. "He wrote to them, saying he would come home soon. He promised."
"So he's also a liar."
"Or Mamá Imelda was wrong and he didn't abandon them on purpose." He finally looked at her, his gaze firm and unwavering. "She never told you about the letters, did she? Never talked about the letters or the songs he wrote for his family or any of it because she never talked about him. Everyone acted like he just left one day and never looked back."
He shook his head tiredly. He remembered how Héctor talked about his daughter while they were trapped in the cenote. How he stared at the foto of his family as if holding the greatest and most precious treasure in the world. How his face lit up when Mamá Imelda hugged him offstage in that brief moment. Miguel wished that he could make everyone understand how much he clearly loved and missed his family, even after not seeing them for so long.
"And weren't things different back then?" he continued. "Traveling around the countryside almost a hundred years ago wasn't exactly safe, was it? Not like today. Which sounds more likely? A man who wrote those letters abruptly deciding to never come home? Or something bad happening to him while he was gone?" Miguel crossed his arms. "Did anyone ever wonder why he never came back or did Mamá Imelda just get mad and decide that he must have abandoned his family?"
She didn't respond to his words, but Miguel saw her expression shift. He saw how she was actually giving his questions careful consideration. She stared at him with a thoughtful frown. Miguel pulled his backpack on, letting his words sink in.
"No one in this family ever considered what else might have happened to Papá Héctor. Maybe there was an accident on the road. Or maybe he got sick." Miguel paused before deciding to push a little further. "He could have even been murdered. We don't know because no one ever tried to find out. No one ever tried to get answers about why he never came back to his family. Everyone just assumed the worst. They blamed him and they blamed music, never giving either one a chance."
"Miguelito," she said quietly.
"You were wrong to smash my guitar. And it was wrong to ban music for so long. Maybe Mamá Imelda was wrong to assume the worst about Papá Héctor," continued Miguel. "He doesn't sound like someone who prefers fame to family. I don't think his ambition made him forget about how much he loved them. I just think we've spent a long time believing something that doesn't make much sense." He turned towards the door. "I'll see you after school, Abuelita."
He didn't wait to hear what she would say. She looked like she had a lot on her mind. Miguel hoped she would really think about it. But it might take time for her to change. Until then, he would just have to keep working.
Giving her statement to the police took less time than expected. The story seemed longer in her head. Imelda explained in concise detail what happened on Día de Muertos, both what she personally witnessed and what she'd managed to learn from Miguel and Héctor that night. Unfortunately, describing what little she knew of how her great-great-grandson ended up trapped in a cenote to die and then explaining the events of the Sunrise Spectacular only made her frozen fury worse. By the end of her statement, Imelda stood rigid as a statue and Officer Inglesias looked unnerved from the other side of the desk.
But while she could give them information on Ernesto trying to murder Miguel, something that the broadcast and countless people in the audience could support, Imelda couldn't tell them anything about his earliest crime. All anyone knew was what Miguel said and Ernesto didn't deny. They knew that he killed Héctor and nothing more.
"There is nothing official on the books about attempting to murder a living child," said Officer Márquez, returning with a thick tome. Dropping it on the desk produced a small cloud of dust. "But apparently someone tried to cover a few loopholes in the past, no matter how unlikely. And no one ever took these older laws off the books. They mostly just forgot about them because they don't come up. Physically harming or attempting to physically harm the living is illegal, even if we can't normally interact with them."
"Tossing a boy off a tower certainly counts," Officer Inglesias said. "What is the possible sentence?"
"Well, it's a bit out of date with most of our current laws, but it can vary a little depending on the severity. Imprisonment is part of the sentence."
"He's already facing that anyway," Officer Inglesias said. "Assault on a Minor carries that sentence if it is severe enough and we have video evidence on that one. He's not getting out of it. Murder in Life Without Conviction carries an even longer imprisonment sentence if he doesn't get a lawyer who'll help him wiggle out of it. Either way, he'll still face at least some jail time."
Murder as a general crime, and Murder in Life Without Conviction specifically, were some of the few charges that depended on a person's actions in the Land of the Living. Murder would always be a more serious crime and it was more difficult to claim innocence when the victim could often give testimony. But while it was bad to be known as a murderer, the punishment in death depended on a variety of factors such as what your punishment in life was, how many victims there were, if there was any evidence of remorse, and so on.
Murder in Life Without Conviction meant that you killed someone and was never punished for the act. The punishment in the Land of the Dead was especially severe to make up for that failure. And the longer the perpetrator went without being discovered, whether in life or in death, the harsher it would be.
Continuing, Officer Márquez said, "In addition to imprisonment, one of the official punishments for attempting to physically harm the living is for his belongings, offerings, and any property to be seized and given to the closest dead relative of the victim as compensation." He shrugged. "As I told you, it is a bit outdated compared to most of our current laws. But it is still in place."
The closest dead relative to Miguel would probably be Julio, his great-grandfather. And she knew he would support whatever decision she made. Her son-in-law was a sensible, supportive, dependable, and helpful man like that.
But Imelda wanted nothing from Ernesto. Not his house. Not his wealth. Not his countless offerings from his living fans. Everything that man possessed, all that fame and fortune, was built on the foundation of her husband's murder. He gained it all by destroying her family.
"I don't want it," said Imelda coldly. "Do something good with that lying murderer's legacy." She paused briefly, trying to think of the best use for possessions, and abruptly recalled her granddaughter mentioning her visit to Shantytown. "Ernesto de la Cruz wanted to be loved and remembered forever? Fine. Give his offerings and wealth to those being forgotten, those with no family and no foto on any ofrenda. That man has taken enough. Make him give to those with nothing. Let them have that foolish house of his or sell it and give the profits to them. My family needs nothing of his. Give it to those who do."
While the two officers looked surprised by her decision, they appeared to approve of it. She didn't care what they thought. Imelda only came for two reasons. She came to ensure that Ernesto de la Cruz finally faced justice for his actions. And she came to ensure that he faced her for what he'd done.
"We will ensure that your wishes are made known when Señor de la Cruz is put on trial," said Officer Márquez. "Most of the charges would be difficult for him to evade by this point. The Murder in Life Without Conviction is something he might try to deny though. We have very little information on the crime and simply refusing to deny the boy's accusations isn't precisely a confession. It could be dismissed by a talented lawyer. If we can't learn more or gain a proper confession, you may have to be satisfied with the lesser charges."
Drawing herself up a little taller, Imelda said, "That is not good enough. That asesino escaped justice for too long. He will answer for what he did to my family. All of it." She glared at the pair firmly. "You told me that I could speak to him. Let me see that man and you will have your confession. I knew him in life and that second-rate músico knows that I am immune to his charms and his tricks."
They exchanged uneasy glances. Her determined expression didn't even twitch, though the frozen fire of her anger cracked slightly as it tried to escape.
"That was not a request. It was a statement of what is going to happen, with or without your cooperation," she said evenly. "Would you show me the way to where you've locked him up or do you need to check your devil box first?"
She gestured dismissively at the piece of junk on the desk. Officer Márquez ran a tired hand along his skull before shaking his head.
"Fine. Señor de la Cruz is currently being treated for his injuries. You may speak to him while the doctora is finishing up," said Officer Márquez. "And if he should choose to give a proper confession, then so be it."
And with that decision made, the two officers led her through the rest of the station. Imelda held her head high and ignored the occasional glances from the other people around her. Some seemed to be studying her, trying to decide if they recognized her. Imelda didn't pause to let them.
They eventually led her to a door. It wasn't a cell with bars since that could be easily escaped from with a little disassembling by a desperate soul. Thick stone walls and a solid steel door was far more secure.
"Officer Inglesias will have to remain present in the room and you need to stay on the other side of the table from the suspect or we'll terminate the visit instantly," said Officer Márquez. "Other than that, you may have your conversation, Señora."
She nodded, the movement sharp and precise. Imelda remained in control, her temper still frozen solid and waiting. But not for much longer. Ice couldn't last forever when she was meant to exist as fire.
Originally, I intended for this chapter to include the confrontation between Imelda and Ernesto. But that part ended up growing a lot longer than I originally predicted and would have made this chapter insanely long by the end. So this chapter builds up to it instead and the next chapter will have his appearance.
A "crescendo" is when the music gradually grows louder and builds over the course of a section. It is usually represented on sheet music with a symbol that looks like a sideways V that stretches over the portion of music that is growing louder. It seemed appropriate for a chapter that is growing and building towards a confrontation.