Abraham left his house in his blue 2004 Malibu thirty minutes past midnight.
Man is a creature of habit, Ismael thought, pleased.
Once he realized the chief of police was a stranger in his own home, his plan became clear. It hadn't taken him long to notice that when his compadre was not away, he would lock himself up, well into the night, in the small room he used as an office at the back of the patio, next to the twisted hawthorn tree.
The priest listened to the car drive off until nothing but the eerie sound of crickets filled the air. Before stepping out of the meager bedroom the Pérezes had fixed up for him, Ismael studied his reflection in the mirror: dressed in full black and wearing the clerical collar worn by the members of his order. He gave an amused smirk.
"Old habits are hard to kill."
Unlike the stark decoration of his room, Marta had adorned the rest of the house with countless knickknacks, covering every wall with a multitude of different-size artworks by local painters whose greatest accomplishment was merely perpetuating the cliché of the starving artist.
Among the cluster of framed paintings, Abraham's glass-top butterfly display cases stood out. I've always found that hobby a tad morbid. However, this wasn't what made Ismael uncomfortable. It was the family photos, yellowed by time, on the console and side tables in the living room that made him cringe. When Ismael walked past these, he couldn't help but roll his eyes, disgusted by the fake smiles the camera had captured.
"Ah, to be old and in denial."
Cloaked in the still darkness of the night, the priest headed for the keys hanging on a hook near the entrance door. I'm a step closer to leaving this charade behind me. He then felt a sudden change in the air, and his senses sharpened. What was that?
"Ismael?" Marta switched the lights on. "You almost scared me to death."
"Almost." He dropped his scowl as he turned to her. "Why don't you go back to bed?"
Wearing an old nightgown that made her look like a specter from a Victorian ghost story, Marta sat down in the armchair by the doorway. In one hand she was holding a cup of tea, in the other a frayed rosary.
"Wait... what are you doing dressed like that at this hour?" A startled expression passed over her face. "Are you heading out?"
Ismael had convinced the bishop to let him stay there only because he assumed it would have been easier for him to disappear if there were fewer eyes on him. The problem was he had not counted on Marta having nothing better to do than to keep track of his every move.
The priest looked down and picked up a photograph from the table. It showed Ofelia, his goddaughter, in her first communion dress, holding hands with someone hidden by the thick picture frame. He remembered even the smallest detail about that day, and he knew the person the Pérezes had cut out of the photo was none other than Marcelo, his former altar boy.
The girl was scrawny, and her hair was as black as a raven. He had not seen her in years. What would she look like today? The other kid, the one missing from the image, was short and chubby and had a face made for smiles. Although his glasses could never hide the sadness in his eyes. Ismael did not wonder what Marcelo would have looked like now. After his heart attack, he'd learned not to torture himself with useless questions.
Another glimpse at the photographs gave him an idea.
"Marta, these pictures..."
"Aren't they beautiful?"
"They're old," he pointed out.
"I have to print new ones, I know." Marta's smile faded. "It's my fault."
"Ofelia isn't in any of these," said Ismael. "And the most recent photo is at least from three or four years ago."
"Well, with this Facebook thing—"
"She moved to Miami, yes?"
"Oh, no. She's on vacation."
"Really?"
"Yes."
"How is she? Do you speak often?"
Marta smiled nervously at him by way of answer.
"You've spoken little to your daughter since Marcelo died, haven't you?" The priest's unblinking eyes studied her reaction. "Tell me, did things between you two change after she ran away that first time?"
"Let's not relive unpleasant memories."
"Unpleasant? It must have been heartbreaking. Maddening, even. You were bedridden for days when she disappeared, if my memory serves me correctly."
"I..." Marta tilted her head, averting his gaze. "She just needed some time away from Abe after what happened."
"Why?"
"Let's talk about something else." She sipped her tea nervously. "They are just opinionated."
"Are they?"
"Abe and my daughter, I mean. Cut from the same cloth, I tell you." A thin, nervous smile split her lips. "And yet they are so different: he's old-fashioned, and she loves going online. Not even I can deny they are both stubborn. No matter what I've told them, they won't listen to reason."
Ismael drew closer and stooped to her level.
"They're headstrong, perhaps, or maybe your opinion means nothing to them."
Her voice trembled. "What?"
"Think about it. Your daughter won't even call you. Your husband is married to his job."
Marta's eyes welled up. "Don't say that. He's just busy with that case, trying to make up for the time we spent at the hospital."
"No, Marta. Lying is a sin," he said. "The truth is, you don't matter to him." Ismael straightened up, towering over her. "The fact is, you don't matter at all." Then, he took the keys and opened the lock.
"Why would you say that?" she asked, sinking deeper into the armchair like a frightened little animal.
The priest did not bother to answer. He switched off the light and closed the door behind him, leaving Marta in the familiar darkness of her living room.