breeze. A sea of loving mementos, the striking image never failed to touch Becca. Whole families often spent Sunday afternoons at the cemetery, bringing small children and picnic lunches—a celebration of the lives that came before. Here, the dearly departed were never truly forgotten.
Becca parked on the edge of grass and got out of her car. Danielle and Momma had come along, sensing the importance of this day for Becca. Her mother and sister clung to each other now, standing under the dark green awning. And Isabel's shiny copper casket was covered in lilies and white blush roses. Innocence lost. On one side of the grave, a solemn-faced Mariachi quartet waited to strike the first note, another part of the culture Becca had grown to respect. Diego hadn't forgotten a single detail.
He stood at her side, holding her hand. And as Father Victor Marquez began a graveside tribute to his sister, Isabel, Becca leaned her head against Diego's shoulder. He drew her close, a welcomed intimacy. And she took advantage of his warmth. She nuzzled her arms around his waist with eyes shut tight, fighting back a sudden rush of tears. As Becca breathed in the heady aroma of flowers, the rich smell of overturned earth, and Diego's subtle cologne on the breeze, a wave of peace swept over her. A fragile stillness.
It would take time for her to feel worthy of happiness. But now she had hope the day would come.
'It was a beautiful service, Father Victor.' Becca made a point to speak to the priest in private, away from the crowd hovering near Isabel's grave.
'Diego Galvan had much more to do with that,' the cleric insisted. 'My mother will never forget this day. Isabel's life honored at the San Fernando Cathedral? You have no idea what it meant to her... and to Rudy and me. We can never repay Diego's generosity.'
'And he wouldn't expect anything in return. I have gotten to know his . . . quiet ways.'
Father Victor smiled, warm and genuine. 'Yes, I can see that.'
When she returned his gesture with heat coloring her cheeks, the priest added, 'You have a look of contentment about you. I can see it in your eyes. Different from the woman who came to my family's home a lifetime ago.'
'Not many people get a chance to do things over again.' Becca gazed over her shoulder at Danielle and her mother, talking to Diego in the warm sun. 'I've been blessed.'
'Yes, I read about your sister in the newspaper. Just like our Isabel finally coming home, you experienced a miracle of your own.'
'Yes ... a miracle.' She hadn't thought of it that way until now. 'An amazing blessing.'
It puzzled Becca to hear that Father Victor considered the return of Isabel's body to be a miracle for his family. She supposed time and dashed hopes had convinced him that his sister would not walk through their front door. His mother would never embrace her daughter again. His brother Rudy would not experience the privilege of asking a sister's forgiveness. And he would not play the part of older brother to guide her, protect her . . . save her. Isabel's burial and the peace of mind of his family were all Victor had left.
Perhaps miracles were still miracles, no matter what the size.
'You were at the Imperial Theatre the morning after the fire. Weren't you, Father?' she asked, squinting into the sun. The arson part of her investigation still remained open.
Her question, out of the blue, surprised him. But a look of resignation on his face told her she would hear the truth . . . finally. How could he bend it standing next to Isabel's grave? After all, his sister had been the reason for the priest's subterfuge. He had no more reason to lie now . . .
'Yes, I was.' He looked away and took a deep breath, waiting for her to go on.
'You set the arson fire hoping Isabel would be found. And I'm sorry ... sorry we couldn't find Isabel without your help. But you had another reason to put up roadblocks whenever I questioned you.'
He nodded, his face grimacing with the memory.
'You were protecting Rudy. Weren't you?' She locked eyes with Father Victor. The look of shock on his face wrenched her heart. She shifted her attention to Rudy Marquez, standing among the mourners. The young man looked lost even in a crowd.
'Please don't make me answer that question, Rebecca. I don't want God to hear those words come from my mouth.' His lips trembled as a single tear drained down his cheek.
'Please . . . hear me out. I know about the fight Rudy had with Isabel at the theater on the day she went missing. I think you knew about it, too. That's why you thought he needed your protection.'
Father Victor shut his eyes tight—his mouth moving in a silent prayer—a priest trapped in his own brand of hell on earth. She had to set things straight.
'Don't worry, Victor. Rudy won't hear about it from me, but he does need your help whether he admits it or not. Your brother will always carry the burden of his guilt. . . because he can't rectify it. Not now.' She reached for the cleric's arm and squeezed it. 'I'll get a chance to fix things with Danielle and my mother. It's up to me now to make a difference. But Rudy won't ever get that opportunity. He needs you more than he would ever say. Don't let him ride this out alone. I know how that feels.'
'I understand. I'll do what I can. I've asked to be relocated to San Antonio, to be with my family. I owe my brother that much. He's a good man, but Isabel's loss has taken a toll on him ... on us all.' A sadness darkened his face. 'I still can't believe what happened. Sonja had been Isabel's friend.'
'No, Father. She never really was.' Becca took a deep breath. 'I don't want to ruin today, but you and I should talk about the details of this case before it goes to trial. You'll have to prepare your family for what they may hear. But I want you to know Isabel was a good girl. She tried to do the right thing, and she loved her family very much. Never doubt the Isabel you honored and cherished. She's someone I would have been proud to call a friend.'
Father Victor's face softened into a show of relief, a long-awaited release of his burden. His tears were for a different reason now. And as far as the Imperial Theatre arson case went, the priest would not be charged. Becca had only her suspicions and no hard evidence. Not enough to make a case. The Marquez family had suffered enough.
'Thank you, Rebecca. May the Lord bless you on your journey.' He raised his hand and made the sign of the cross.
'He already has, Father Victor. But a good word from you can't hurt.' She smiled. 'Take care of your family. Let them mourn. Help them heal. And I'll call you soon. But first, I'd like you to meet my family.'
As she introduced Danielle and her mother to Father Victor, Becca's mind drifted to Sonja. During the course of her investigation, she had always had a blind spot when it came to her. She wanted to believe her lies because to comprehend what really happened was darker than Becca wanted the world to be.
In the end, Sonja confessed because she thought Brogan was alive and would refute her story, big-time. A major finger-pointing session with her coming out on the losing end. And she thought by serving jail time, she might avoid the man's revenge for her betrayal, a strong motivator.
But being dead was a powerful hurdle to overcome, even for Matt Brogan.
When Sonja found out what happened to him, she stuck with her confession, something Becca hadn't expected. She wanted to believe guilt played a mean game of devil's advocate and persuaded the woman to own up to her crime. But Becca had grown far too cynical to buy it. Sonja had been a willing participant in her own destruction. No repentance required. Maybe jail would be a step up to the life she had lived.
And the little gold necklace with the heart? Sonja bought it for herself. She gave the name of the jeweler, and their records were pulled from archives, giving police another piece of the puzzle. It turned out Matt Brogan wasn't the romantic type after all. Imagine that? In the fight with Isabel, the necklace was torn off Sonja's neck. Her CSI guy, Sam Hastings, confirmed the chain had been broken—one of the reasons it wasn't found dangling from the neck of Isabel's skeleton but lying on the ground.
So much of Sonja's story evolved around Matt Brogan, but he was probably only an excuse—an accelerant to her self-immolation. She had made contact with him again, hoping for a spark of what they'd had before. But when she realized that door had been shut for good, she accused him of Isabel's murder to get the monkey off her back once and for all. She thought the police would buy it. After all, Brogan fit the killer mold far better than Sonja, the consummate actress.
But the bastard was dead. He got off light.
Was Sonja a coldhearted killer and pathological liar or a sick, broken girl? It wasn't Becca's place to say. The
