I know that you're all eager to see how this works out. But at least you didn't have to wait too long for this update. I wrote most of it while working on the previous chapter until I realized how insanely long it was growing.
And some people even managed to guess this chapter's title already. "Forte" literally means "strong" and indicates that music should be played loud. Not very loud since that would be "fortissimo," but still loud.
The door opened with a slight creak as Officer Inglesias led her into the room. Other than the two chairs and the table, metal and sturdy in design, there was little in terms of furnishings. The dull gray of the walls and furniture felt depressing compared to the rest of the bright city. She didn't let that bother her as Imelda took a seat across the table, glaring at the lying, murderous músico.
Ernesto de la Cruz had certainly seen better days. His expensive suit was torn and dirt was ground into the fabric, hanging off his frame in a way that made them look more like rags. Imelda could glimpse his bound ribs, indicating that the doctora standing beside him had already started her job. The doctora, her expression one of cool professionalism and her facial markings a trail of pink flower petals, was currently studying how best to fix his broken collarbone. Imelda could also spot at least two further breaks in his arm through the tears in his suit and a very noticeable crack spread along his skull like a spiderweb. If there were any injuries further down, sitting behind the table hid them for the moment.
They looked painful. A more forgiving woman might feel a flicker of sympathy for him. But Imelda remembered how well-remembered the man was and that he would heal relatively quickly. And she remembered how Héctor was held together with tape, his injuries not healing because almost no memories remained. She remembered how Héctor was alone for decades, estranged from his family since his death. She remembered how Héctor's body spasmed and weakened, fading before her eyes as he was nearly forgotten. She remembered how limp and lifeless Héctor remained, trapped on the brink of the Final Death even now. And she remembered it all started because Ernesto murdered his best friend and left her family with only gossip and assumptions on why he never came home.
Imelda felt absolutely no sympathy for the man.
"You don't look so well, Ernesto," she said coldly. "Did that dance you forced me into wear you out? Or perhaps this is what happens when you are a lying murderer?"
"Nice to see you again too," muttered Ernesto darkly, not looking overly surprised by her presence. "I assume you sent that boy home."
"No thanks to you," she snapped, her anger starting to crack through the ice. "First you tried to trap him in a cenote so he would never go home."
Gesturing with the hand on his intact arm with a slight wince, he said, "I couldn't send Miguel after he heard all those stories. He could have destroyed my reputation. And it wasn't like I directly tried to kill him. I merely tried to let things take their natural course. Anyone would have done the same." He paused briefly and asked, "Just to clarify, was Miguel only your great-great-grandson or did one of your descendants marry—"
"No," Imelda snapped, revolted by the idea and the fact Miguel even considered the possibility that she would marry Ernesto. "My family has nothing to do with any unclaimed children that you might have left behind. Not that believing he was related to you stopped you from having Miguel thrown in a sinkhole. Or throwing him from a tower." She pointed sharply at the man. "And you can't claim that wasn't an attempt to kill him. Nothing has ever changed. You are just as insecure—"
"Insecure? I am Ernesto de la Cruz, the world's greatest musician—"
"I know who you are," she said. Both of their voices were rising as their emotions did. "I've known you since long before anyone knew your name. I knew you when you were singing in the plaza, smiling at any señorita who caught your eye. I remember how you tried to disguise it with charm and machismo, but I could see how desperate you were for attention and approval. And how you would rather have someone else do the hard work and take the risks. How you were terrified of failure." She shook her head dismissively. "It was understandable when you were a boy causing trouble while your closest friend followed after you, a caring younger brother and your most loyal fan all in one. But then you became an adult and believed you were entitled to whatever you wanted. I saw it even when Héctor excused your faults. You are nothing more than a selfish, cowardly, insecure—"
"I am not a coward and I am not insecure, Imelda Rivera."
They always brought out the worst in each other. It was one of the many reasons that she didn't like it when Héctor brought his friend around. His attitude and behavior frustrated her nearly as much as his influence on her husband and Ernesto couldn't charm or blind her from seeing everything he tried to hide. There was always a high chance that they would end up fighting and poor Héctor would end up in the middle. But if there was one advantage to the situation, it was that she knew that her presence would grate on his patience and self-control enough that he could not think to censor his words.
He would be honest because he would be too upset and frustrated by her words to be anything else.
"Miguel is a child," Imelda said evenly. "Even if he knew that you were a fraud and a murderer, what threat was he to you? Why would you need to kill him?"
"He could tell everyone! He could destroy my reputation in the Land of the Living! He could ruin everything I built."
Everything he built by murdering her husband. The ice was gone. Her rage was a building inferno. Her body shook slightly from restrained fury.
"He is a child and you are a beloved musician that everyone respects, no matter how little you deserve it. No one would believe him. Miguel would not be able to prove anything. Any proof of your crimes would be long gone. He could do nothing to you if he went home," she hissed. "But you couldn't take the risk. You were so insecure that your reputation would shatter on the word of a boy that you tried to trap him here until dawn. And when that failed, you tried to kill him directly."
He looked away sharply, the abrupt movement nearly dislodging the doctora's grip. She scowled before tugging at his ruined jacket so she could get a better look at the damage to his arm.
"Success only comes to those who are willing to seize their moment, no matter what it takes. And sometimes you have to defend that success from those who would take it away," he said calmly. "Nothing of value ever comes for free."
"And was Héctor's life the price that you chose to pay for your fame?" said Imelda, her voice both cold and burning with a lifetime of fury and loss. "The life of a friend who saw you as a brother? The life of my husband? The life of Coco's papá? Was he worth so little to you?" When he didn't immediately respond, Imelda said, "You were at our wedding. Coco called you her tío. Even if I never liked you as much as Héctor did and I didn't like how he would agree to whatever you wanted, you were a part of our lives. Did it not matter? Did you have no regrets over what you did? And don't bother lying. We both know it never worked on me."
"I have one regret, Imelda," said Ernesto with a strange tone in his voice, one that cut through her anger and sent a chill to her very marrow. "I realized in the years after poor Héctor's death that it was such a tragic waste. Whether he lived or died, all that talent would be wasted rather than shared with the world. I regret that I did not realize the better solution until long after."
He turned back to look Imelda in the eyes, his expression empty of his normal charm and friendly demeanor. There was a blankness to his face, as if all hints of humanity had vanished.
"I regret that he and his future songs were gone when it would have been better to eliminate the real problem. Héctor would not have turned on me and tried to abandon me if it wasn't for you and that child. A loyalty that you clearly didn't share; I'm not the one who ensured the living forgot about him. It doesn't take much imagination to figure out who did that."
She turned away, staring at the table instead. She refused to let him know that he'd found a vulnerable spot.
"Losing Héctor was a tragedy," Ernesto continued in his strange tone of voice. "A tragedy and a waste that could have been easily avoided. There was a far more reasonable solution and I regret not realizing it before his death. Perhaps he would have grieved for a time, but the death of his family would have been better in the long run. Losing you and the child would have solved the problem."
Imelda surged to her feet and slammed her hands on the table, sharp words struggling to break out. How dare he even hint at threatening Coco?
Ernesto yelped at the same moment. His injured arm popped off at the shoulder, the doctora removing it in order to properly set it without distraction. Because the connections between his bones far stronger than the frayed memories that held Héctor's joints together, the removal took more effort and felt disconcerting.
Imelda used the distraction to rein in her temper just enough to avoid lashing out. She couldn't get the answers that she wanted and the police wouldn't get the confession they needed if Officer Inglesias was forced to remove her from the room.
"Ernesto de la Cruz, you will tell me what happened. You couldn't even bother with a letter to us when Héctor died," she said. "You could have told us that there was an accident or a sickness or something. But you never said a word. You refused to give us even a comforting lie."
"Why should I give anything to you or that girl?" snapped Ernesto. "You ruined everything. We were fine until you started twisting his head around. He wanted to abandon everything we worked towards and it was your fault. You didn't deserve anything, not even a lie to give you closure. It was your and that girl's fault that I had to kill him."
He didn't seem to realize that he had just flat-out confessed to murder in front of a police officer. Imelda suspected he was focusing only on his audience of one, on the person that he was trying to blame for his actions. She stood there, hands pressed against the table and her breathing growing a little faster. But she wasn't done yet. As much as she hated the man, she still needed answers.
She needed the truth. After decades of false assumptions and spiteful fears, she needed to know the truth. All of it.
"What did you do?" she asked. "How did you 'seize the moment,' Ernesto? A knife? A fall like you tried with Miguel? Or did you simply use your bare hands to end his life?"
"Do you think I am some type of monster, Imelda? Do you think I wanted him to die? That I enjoyed it?" said Ernesto. "He left me with no other options. Anyone in the same situation would do exactly as I did."
"And what situation would that be?" she asked, her voice as sharp as glass shards.
Because she knew Ernesto. She knew him long before fame and fortune. She knew him when he was a musician who had yet to be noticed beyond his hometown. Imelda knew what kind of man he was at the core.
He was the kind who would defend, deflect, and blame others for his actions. He was the kind who needed to make excuses that made someone else responsible for his mistakes. He was the kind who needed to feel validated. And he was the kind who would always perform for his audience.
"Héctor wanted to take his songs and abandon our dream. All because he wouldn't stop dwelling on the two of you. He was distracted, restless, and withdrawn. By autumn, all he would talk about was you and that child. All those letters that he wrote, how he missed seeing his girls, how lonely traveling seemed… That's all he seemed to care about. Not the crowds that were growing steadily, those we were supposed to be impressing so that we could start performing at bigger venues. And then it got worse. He started talking about wanting to return to Santa Cecilia, turning his back at our chance to make our dream come true and become the greatest musicians ever. Each time, I managed to convince him to continue. We couldn't disappoint our fans and we were a team. But each argument grew more difficult."
He cringed as the doctora shifted his ulna as his disconnected arm rested on the table, the woman trying to splint the break from the bell. Obviously she gave him something earlier to dull the pain, but it clearly didn't block out all of it. Imelda felt a wave of grim satisfaction that it still hurt.
"I never wanted to harm Héctor. He was my best friend. But I couldn't let him throw away our dream. I couldn't let him drag me down to obscurity just because you and that child sunk your talons into him," continued Ernesto after a moment. "I decided to take precautions. A contingency plan, if you will. One I figured would never be necessary, but I never expected Héctor to betray our years of friendship like that either."
Imelda was shaking slightly. Not because she was cold. And not because she was scared. No, this was rage. Barely restrained rage. Every word from the man's mouth made her want to break his jaw more and more.
"Rat poison has never been difficult to obtained, even if I chose the stronger powder form rather than the watered-down liquid sold in bottles. And every other cheap murder mystery novel tells us that arsenic is the ideal poison: quick and effective, without taste or odor, and easy to hide in food or drink. But even when I bought it and measured out the powder, I didn't think it would ever be necessary. I merely tucked it away in a tiny paper bundle in my pocket. Just in case," he said dismissively. "Even as his remarks about wanting to go back grew more frequent, I was confident that he would always listen to reason and stay. I was confident I would never need my contingency plan and forgot about it most days. Until that evening in early December in Mexico City."
He glared at Imelda. She matched it with her own growing fury.
"He refused to change his mind, too obsessed with you and that girl. He even bought a train ticket before telling me. I tried to talk him into staying like I always did. But that time, he refused to see sense and intended to leave with his songs, abandoning me like I meant nothing to him. Héctor wouldn't listen. He wanted to destroy everything with his selfishness. He left me no other options."
Imelda wasn't sure she wanted to hear this after all. The callousness of the man's words clashed against her memories of the two as friends. Even when she didn't like him back then and even though Ernesto had many faults that left her gritting her teeth, the fact that he seemed to care about Héctor redeemed him somewhat in her eyes. And yet even that piece of decency was gone.
She hated the man and knew that he was capable of murder, but his tone just made it clear how thoroughly he believed that it wasn't his fault. He refused to take responsibility for his crimes. Did he truly believe that the rest of the world would be equally cruel? That what he did was reasonable and acceptable?
"When he tried to abandon everything that ever meant anything to us, I offered reassurance that I understood his decision and suggested a toast to our friendship before he left. He didn't notice what was added to his shot glass from across the room. I was nervous that the powder wouldn't dissolve thoroughly in the tequila and that he would spot it in the glass or there would be a gritty texture when he tasted it, but he accepted the drink without comment. He was never the most observant, was he? Otherwise Héctor would have realized what he was giving up by choosing you and that girl over our dream. That he brought it on himself."
Her entire body was rigid. She stared at him, listening to his heartless words. She felt like a string on Héctor's beautiful white guitar, one overtightened and ready to snap.
"Even with the long walk to the train station, I worried the arsenic would be too slow. That I didn't use enough, though I measured out a decent spoonful. But it finally started working when we were close to his destination. A few moments of pain and confusion and then he collapsed in the street, unconscious and never to awaken again. The pain looked stronger than I expected, but he didn't feel it for long. No, I am not a monster nor am I cruel. No violence. No struggle. He never even realized what truly happened until Miguel made the connection to one of my movies."
He didn't seem to notice the horrified expression on the doctora's face, her cool professional mask slipping. She probably knew what arsenic poisoning could do to someone. Perhaps she'd even treated it in life.
Imelda felt like she should be shouting. She should be insulting Ernesto, his parentage, his skills as a músico, and his shoes. She should be lashing out with the fury threatening to burn her to ash. And yet she couldn't move. She couldn't speak. And her mind was consumed with the image of Héctor in pain, dying of poison offered by the hand of a trusted friend.
"From there, it was easy to fix what his selfish devotion to the two of you nearly destroyed. I took the songs from his suitcase so that they would not be wasted in Santa Cecilia. I dragged him to the closest alleyway, changed him into more ordinary clothes than his charro outfit, and rubbed dirt into the fabric and on his face. Anyone who spotted him would only see a homeless and worthless vagabundo. And just as he chose to leave me without any thought of what would happen to me, I left him there to succumb to his fate."
He left him. Héctor was still alive when Ernesto walked away. How long was Héctor alone on the cold streets, dying from poison? Hours? Days? Did anyone see him? Did anyone try to help him? Did he ever regain consciousness before the end or did he at least escape further pain? Imelda barely noticed that both the doctora and Officer Inglesias looked uneasy about her now, too wrapped up in her thoughts about the cruel story that Ernesto was reciting.
"If anyone had ever recognized him, I intended to say that he left for a night out on the town and never came back. I would be as shocked as anyone over finding out that he died. Regrettable, but unsurprising for a musician visiting a strange city so far from home. But whoever found and dealt with him did not recognize him from any of our performances. Nor did anyone ask what became of my partner." Ernesto met her gaze and gave her a grin that was tinged with just a hint of vicious cruelty and mocking. "But that should not surprise you, Imelda. We both know that Héctor is quite… forgettable."
Imelda didn't even realize she'd moved at all until Ernesto hit the ground with a yelp, her boot in hand and the woman already halfway across the table in pursuit of the dislodged head. Rage and other dark emotions controlled her body, reacting too fast for thought. Even Officer Inglesias managing to grab her and drag Imelda back didn't snap her out of it.
How dare he? How dare he?
As she was pulled towards the door, still struggling to get at least another swing at the man, she saw the doctora pick up his lost skull. The previous crack had spread further from the impact and his expression looked pained and terrified.
Good. He deserved worse.
Officer Inglesias didn't let go until they were outside the room and the door closed, hiding Ernesto from her vengeful sight. But she could still see him in her mind. Taunting her about how Héctor almost… How she tried to…
Her body shook as her energy born of hatred gradually faded, leaving her slumping against the wall slightly. She wiped away a few furious tears before clenching her hands at her sides.
"Do you have enough to charge the man?" she asked, her voice surprisingly steady even while the rest of her felt differently.
Hesitating briefly, he said, "Sí, Señora. He was not threatened or bribed to speak. He volunteered his testimony freely and with full knowledge that we were listening. We have his confession. He will be charged and will undoubtedly be found guilty."
"And my actions at the end?"
"We'll smooth it over. He has more important things to worry about." He paused briefly. "And I believe anyone in your circumstances would do the same."
And there was that look in the man's eyes. The look that she never wanted directed towards her. The one she absolutely hated and always followed with whispers that were never quiet enough. Pity.
Poor Imelda. Her family disowned her; the stubborn girl falling for some crazy musician with nothing.
Poor Imelda. Her husband left town, chasing after a foolish dream and probably a few señoritas.
Poor Imelda. She's living in denial, refusing to accept that those letters stopped because that man was never coming back.
Poor Imelda. Left alone with a child and no money, that woman will have no choice except to beg on the streets. Or perhaps even something more distasteful and disgraceful.
Poor Imelda. She thinks she can run a business on her own, that she can survive alone. Perhaps her charitable neighbors can help the unfortunate and pitiful soul when everything crumbles apart, letting them feel like they're such good people while also making them feel better about their own lives in comparison.
Poor Imelda. Too stubborn, too proud, too sharp-tongued, too aggressive, too outspoken, and too cold-hearted to keep a man, driving off even that crazy and foolish Héctor in the end.
But no matter how much Imelda hated pity, she was too tired to act on it. Physically and emotionally tired. And she couldn't risk making him mad. Getting locked up for attacking Ernesto de la Cruz and Officer Inglesias wouldn't do her any good. And she really wanted to go home and check on her family. She wanted to get away from that lying, murderous músico and let him rot in whatever dark hole they would eventually throw him in.
"Gracias," she said quietly. "If you don't need me any further, I should be leaving. The gondola lift that will take me back to our neighborhood can grow crowded at this time of day."
"This is a bit uncomfortable," said Felipe, standing next to the bed awkwardly.
"Because Héctor is lying there like a corpse?" Oscar asked, repositioning his glasses. "Or because we thought for years that he ran out on our sister and Coco when it turns out he was actually murdered?"
"Both."
They shifted uncomfortably, neither of them taking the chair in the room. Both of them were watching over their brother-in-law. Or former brother-in-law. Or former former brother-in-law. They were still working on what exactly they were supposed to call him now. Especially since they'd been kind of avoiding the entire topic and the room itself as much as possible until that point, worrying more about keeping an eye on their older sister than anything else.
Logically, Felipe knew that one of them could have stayed in the workshop with Julio and Rosita. She claimed that they had a new order, a large one. One of them could have helped with that.
But neither of them particularly liked working on things alone or spending much time apart. It would be like going around with half their limbs missing. They needed each other. It was simply the way that they'd always been. From the moment that the twins were born, they'd been together. Even in death, they were inseparable; when Oscar succumbed to the fever that hit them both so hard, Felipe followed within an hour. So when given the choice, they decided to watch over Héctor together.
"He broke her heart," said Felipe quietly. "When he left, he hurt her. She didn't want him to leave. Even before he tried to come back, Héctor hurt her."
"But if he made it home, she would have been all right. She wouldn't have… changed."
Imelda was always proud and stubborn. She was always a force of nature, someone that not even the two of them as young children could get around. And she never did anything partway. Imelda was the type of person who was all or nothing. But after Héctor never came home, they'd watched their older sister grow more closed off, sterner, and more serious. Banning music was only the most obvious change.
Imelda loved the man. Oscar and Felipe saw that much even as children, watching how she brightened and grew lighter in his presence. And he was a lot of fun to have around and could actually tell the twins apart, even when they tried tricks like wearing each other's clothes. They'd approved of Héctor from the start. They would tease the couple since it was their job as younger brothers, but they were happy for their sister. And when she spoke out against their parents and walked out of the house to be with Héctor, they were proud of her. Even if their mamá and papá refused to acknowledge their eldest child, the twins knew she was happy with him.
That made it all the worse when it seemed like Héctor abandoned his family. After giving Héctor her heart and sacrificing so much to be with him, the idea of him breaking that trust was shocking. Oscar and Felipe watched Imelda lash out in pain and grow to hate the man for what he did. And it was heartbreaking. She might be the elder sibling, but they still felt protective of their sister.
And even if abandoning Imelda and Coco didn't sound like the man that they'd thought they knew, it was the only thing that made sense at the time. Everyone figured that if there was an accident or something similar, Ernesto would have sent word. The two of them were best friends and Ernesto would have let them know if something happened to Héctor. The silence meant the choice not to return was voluntary. It meant Héctor could have come home and didn't.
But recently, new information had come to light. It wasn't Héctor who turned out not to be the man they'd believed him to be. Ernesto de la Cruz was the reason that Héctor never made it home.
"How could Ernesto have… killed him?" asked Felipe, rubbing his arm. "They used to be friends. Or even—"
"—almost like brothers," Oscar continued. "Like us… Can you imagine one of us—"
"—turning on the other? No. We could never do something—"
"—so heartless and cruel. And I don't want to think about it too much, Felipe. That kind of—"
"—betrayal? That kind of shock? That would hurt almost as much as dying. At least—"
"—depending on how he did it. Stabbing, strangulation—"
"—drowning, breaking his neck… I mean, Ernesto has always been bigger than Héctor. It would have—"
"—been easy," Oscar said, suppressing a shiver. "Far too easy." He glanced at his twin. "Do you think Imelda will take—"
"—Héctor back? I don't know. She is really worried about him though. I don't know what will happen to her if he doesn't wake up. I don't want to—"
"—see her break again. Not again."
Felipe hesitated a moment before asking, "And Héctor? After everything that happened, after everything she did and we did, keeping him off the ofrenda and not listening to him here, do you think he still—"
"—loves her?" Oscar smiled weakly. "We both remember what he was like when we were children. He adored her."
That was why it was so shocking when he never came back. Héctor wasn't the kind of person to hide how much he cared about Imelda and Coco. He was open and honest about his love. The idea that he could turn his back on his family, that his devotion could shatter so easily or that it might have been a lie the entire time, felt wrong. It was a betrayal against all of them, not just his wife and child.
Instead, they betrayed Héctor by losing faith in the man. Oscar and Felipe sided with Imelda when she lashed out in fury and grief, accepting the whispers of the neighbors as fact and letting it fester. They stood by her because she was their older sister and they followed Imelda's decision. She was the one who lost the most, after all. And in doing so, they turned against Héctor and left him out in the cold.
Hindsight was often very harsh and unforgiving.
"And you saw him that night," Oscar continued. "You saw how he looked at her. No matter what else has changed, Héctor—"
"—is still crazy about her," finished Felipe with a nod before turning to look towards the bed.
Then he froze, narrowing his eyes. Felipe straightened his glasses and looked again. He wasn't completely certain that he was seeing what he thought he was. But he wanted to believe it.
He just needed to make sure first.
"Oscar?" he asked quietly, twitching his head in the right direction.
His twin followed his gaze obediently. And when Oscar's eyes widened in response, Felipe knew that his brother noticed the same thing he did.
Héctor hadn't moved since they'd helped carry him into the house, half-afraid his loose and fragile bones would tumble apart in their hands. There hadn't been a single twitch. He'd been completely limp and lifeless the entire time. For the last several days, there had been absolutely no sign of progress.
But now…
It was subtle and easy to miss. A small detail among the rest. But where once he remained completely limp, his phalanges curled in slightly. His fingers were starting to dig into the quilt.
And as Felipe looked more closely, he noticed an uneasiness to Héctor's body. His limbs had stiffened a little and his face looked tense in his state of unconsciousness. He clearly wasn't awake, but there was still a look of discomfort in his features. Or maybe even the start of pain.
And the glow… It was still present, but not as bright. Felipe could see it visibly dimming before his eyes. After spending so long trapped precariously on the edge of the Final Death, the balance had shifted. And it might have actually shifted in their favor.
Reaching cautiously for his arm, Oscar called quietly, "Héctor?"
And how is that for a cliffhanger? But don't get too excited. Just because there's finally a sign of change doesn't mean that everything is perfectly fine just yet. Héctor isn't awake. But the next chapter should reveal more about his current state.
But don't expect another update quite as fast. This one was about three-fourths done when I posted the previous one. I still have a lot more writing for the next one.
Edit: One of my readers from AO3 with a better understanding of both Spanish as a language and the Mexican culture gave me a small piece of advice. So I've made some minor corrections in terminology. I want to do this story correct, at least as much as possible. And sometimes my Spanish dictionary from high school and one-fourth the genetics just isn't enough.