someone in a hit-and-run accident?”

“You thought she might have killed—”

“The point,” Paige says, shutting me up, “is that I found her, and she’s okay. She’s healthy and safe, just like I hoped for. She tried to hide from me—fine—but I found her. So I win. Right?”

Before I can answer, Paige keeps going. I’m not sure what stage of grief this is. Maybe the gloating or ridiculing stage. We’re way past acceptance.

“Right,” she continues. “I found her. That’s what I should have said. I found you, you, you contemptible bitch. That’s what the judge called her, right? A bitch?” She looks at me, waiting for an answer.

“Yes. He did.” I’m just going to agree with everything right now.

“Yep. Bitch,” she blurts. “A rich bitch. Up in the Palisades with her rich husband and two kids. No, one kid! Because apparently, he already had a daughter! So I was, like, a car you trade in for a new model. Get rid of the blond four-year-old—I’d like to try the brunette this year! What’s her name? Taylor? And can you believe what she called her? ‘Mom’? Give me a break. Mom? Mom! That’s such BS! You want to know why? That woman in there—that bottle-blond trophy wife playing hostess with all these snobby assholes—is not her goddamn mother!”

I slam on the brakes, and my Mini Cooper screeches to a halt.

* * *

Paige’s words rattle around in my head. “Not her goddamn mother.”

The floodgates open, and memories wash over me. I think back to the first time I was at Carmen’s house. When I was upstairs I looked over all the family portraits, something struck me as odd even then.

Images of Elizabeth growing up and professional photographs of Carmen, including some that suggest she used to be a model or an actress… There are no candid shots. These are posed portraits, assembled to show a family. Curiously, they don’t show the entire family together. Everyone is there, just in different pictures.

Even Paige has a picture of her and her mother. Why are there no pictures of Carmen and Elizabeth together? Then I remember when I first walked into Carmen’s kitchen and found her cooking. Not the housekeeper. Carmen. And Leona was the one in control.

“¡Váyanse!” Leona commands. The two other servants stop what they’re doing and quickly leave.

Leona never left me alone with Carmen—ever. They exchanged a lot of strange looks every time Carmen had something to tell me. Leona wasn’t having it when I tried to grill Carmen about Elizabeth and Hugo.

“She’s done answering your questions today,” Leona says.

Was Leona protecting her or keeping her quiet? I sensed something was off, even then.

There’s a lot Carmen’s not telling me, and she won’t tell me, especially with Leona protecting her. Maybe Leona is more than a maid.

If Leona was more than a maid, what was she? Who was she? Maybe she wasn’t just Carmen’s confidante. Maybe she was more. Then David’s words come back to me.

“She’s dangerous, Darcy” he says. “A ruthless, manipulative, evil, and incredibly smart woman who won’t let anything stand in her way… No one in law enforcement has even set eyes on her—she stays in that compound twenty-four seven.”

No, that can’t be. Leona was the housemaid killed by Santa Muerte, and Carmen was the mother trying to save her child. Right? Then the family photos come back to me, again.

These are posed portraits, assembled to show a family. Curiously, they don’t show the entire family together.

What proof do I have that Carmen was actually Elizabeth’s mother? Who, then, is Carmen? Who is the woman hiding from Santa Muerte at the Cathedral of Our Lady of the Angels? I remember what Fiona said when I reported back to her about Carmen.

“Oh, and Carmen’s still alive,” I tell Fiona. “She’s found sanctuary at the Catholic church downtown.”

Fiona chuckles. “That won’t protect her. The spirit of Santa Muerte is not a visitor from hell.” She casts a sideways glance at me. “It’ll protect her from you, though.”

If Carmen wasn’t protecting herself from Santa Muerte, could she have been protecting herself from me? That’s only possible if she knew I had a demon inside me—and only Santa Muerte and Melchora knew that.

Was Carmen working with them? Melchora was in command of Santa Muerte, right? Again, I hear Fiona’s words echoing in my ear.

“Frankly, I’m surprised Melchora is able to wield such magic,” Fiona says. “I didn’t think she was that powerful a witch.”

“Some spells are so powerful that two or more witches are needed to harness the energy.”

“Two or more witches,” Fiona said. That can’t be. How can that be? Then there was that other thing Fiona said:

“My mother. She was a very powerful witch herself, and she taught me everything she knew.”

Then I remember Carmen’s words.

“My mother,” Carmen says proudly. “She taught me everything I know.”

Oh shit…

* * *

“Darcy!”

Paige’s screaming in my ear jolts me from my thoughts. A car zooms by on the left, honking its horn in frustration.

“What’s wrong?” Paige asks, concerned.

“Elizabeth’s mom,” I answer slowly.

“Carmen?”

“No,” I say. “Leona.”

Paige looks at me quizzically. Then she registers what I’m suggesting. “No. That can’t be.”

“Carmen was a facade. An actress pretending to be the head of the cartel. She was a smokescreen in case the feds were going to bust Leona or a rival cartel was going to assassinate her. But Leona… she was the real leader. She was the real wife of Marcos Viramontes, who inherited his empire. The real mother of Elizabeth. The real Vibora Negra. No one knew what the real woman looked like. David said it himself—no one’s ever seen her. But he was wrong. Everyone had seen her. Everyone had spoken to her. It was Leona talking directly to the police to make a deal for herself the whole time!”

Paige speaks hesitantly. “Then… then who took Elizabeth?”

“It was Carmen’s plan. She found out Leona was going to

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