Her dark eyes were locked in mine. Still. Expressionless. They drilled into me. She saw me. Then her face twisted in … was that disgust?
“Is that true, Xochitl?”
Ofelia. She rushed toward me, put her hands on my arms and shook me. “Did you keep them?”
I didn’t know what to say. I looked for Raúl, and his bushy hair had fallen over his eyes.
He was still crying.
“Look at me!” Ofelia cried, and she dug her nails into my skin, but I couldn’t focus.
They were all moving in toward me.
Closer.
Staring at me.
Realization growing like dawn on their faces.
“We trusted you,” Omar said. “We don’t have a choice. We have to tell you our secrets!”
I couldn’t look at him. I cast my eyes down, but there it was.
Manolito’s blood, pooled at my feet. All that was left of him.
Was this my fault?
When I looked up, they had mostly surrounded me. But Julio was still smiling.
“She’s yours,” he said.
Then he walked off, Emilia at his heels.
My panic burst, and I couldn’t be there any longer. I spun around and ran as fast as I could, silent and terrified, and every step pulled my stomach further down in shame and guilt. They called out after me, yelled my name, demanded the truth. The only living part of Manolito was inside me. His story twisted, and now my guilt was my own.
I had done this, hadn’t I? I thought. We were not supposed to lie. We were not supposed to hide from You. And I had not given Lito’s story back, and You had punished him.
Hadn’t You?
Were the others next? Ofelia y Lani y Omar … I had their stories inside me, and it was only a matter of time before they were taken away … and then me.
I had to find Mamá y Papá. They would understand me, wouldn’t they?
I ran faster, ignoring the sound behind me. I was determined to make it home.
If Empalme didn’t kill me first.
I was nearly home when I saw them. Huddled together, arguing, and Mamá was furious, inconsolable. I couldn’t tell what they were saying, but when Papá looked up at the sound of our approach, his expression told me everything I needed to know.
They had seen Julio’s display, too.
I stood there, swaying, and I couldn’t bring myself to get closer.
I did this, I thought. I brought this upon us.
“No, no!” Papá shouted, and he knelt down as Raúl plunged into his arms. “Tell me that isn’t true, mija! Please!”
Mamá sobbed. “Xochitl, he was lying, right?”
Mamá examined my face as she came close. What could she see upon it? Did she know what I was thinking? I couldn’t tell, but her eyes searched me, over and over, and I tried my best to shove it all down. To hide in plain sight.
But she knew the truth. She knew that Julio had not made anything up.
“How could you?” she said, her voice low, hurt. “Inez told you how important your power is. Why we need it.”
“But, Mamá—” I began.
Papá loomed in my vision. “Please tell me you’ve given them back now. That Solís has cleansed us.”
I couldn’t look Papá in the eye, but I longed for that touch of his. His tenderness. His understanding.
I started crying, and I worked up the courage to look at him. His hands hung at his sides. No touch. No comfort.
“Xochitl,” he said, barely a whisper. “What have you done?”
Raúl sobbed, and it was a bitter, distraught sound, one that echoed outside our home.
He would not come near me.
The three of them gathered, facing me. I had no means to explain my decision. I had kept the story because I thought I could change what was coming. I had made a mistake, and now, Manolito was dead.
That night, my family ate dinner in silence. No one else had come for me, as I had feared—I didn’t know why, but I couldn’t really process it all. I can’t even remember what we had; it all blurred together. No one said anything to me, even though I could tell they all ached to. I caught them glancing at one another, as if daring someone to break the terrible quiet first.
They could not bring themselves to do it.
I helped Papá clean up after dinner, still silent, still tormented by everything racing through my mind. Hadn’t others done so much worse than I had? Wasn’t Julio’s murder of Manolito a far more terrible thing? Solís had not punished him. I couldn’t believe that what I had done was so unforgivable.
And Julio had corrupted everything it meant to be a cuentista. He stole stories out of the bodies of others!
Where was his punishment? How had You let him survive—and thrive—for so long?
There was a voice at the door. I thought it was Rogelio, come to ask me to absolve him once more, but it was la señora Sánchez, hunched over, and she coughed, her white hair pouring over her face.
Papá rushed over to her and tried to help her, but she waved him away. “I won’t be long,” she said, “but you need to know, Beto.”
“Know what?” Papá said.
“They’re gone.”
“Julio?” Mamá said. “Did they finally leave?”
She shook her head, then wiped at the tears on her face. “No, Lupe,” she said. “The guardians. Los lobos. They’re all gone.”
“That can’t be true,” Papá said. “Gone?”
“Their den is empty. The blood has dried.” She paused, sucked a breath in deep. “We might be alone out here.”
Papá glanced at me, and I must have looked miserable because he asked la señora Sánchez to step outside. She gave me one last look before she did.
Raúl sidled up to me. “Are we going to be okay, Xochitl?”
“I’m sure we’ll be fine.” Another lie. “This will all solve itself soon.”
Each lie easier than the last.
“Why did you do it?”
Mamá was standing behind Raúl and shushed
