I GOT IN. Whit started driving.

“What made you change your mind?” he asked.

“You were willing to go without me.”

“How do you know I wasn’t faking it? Playing you?”

I looked at his profile as he drove. From the side, his bent nose had a bump on the bridge. “Were you?”

He let out a snort.

“So where are we going?” I asked.

“To find her.”

“Because you’re thinking that if Dad is innocent and Janet couldn’t have killed Gabriel because she was in jail, that leaves Mercedes?”

“Yes, but not the way you mean it,” he said. “Mercedes didn’t disappear. She just wanted to make it look that way. I think she’s hiding because she’s scared.”

“Of?”

“The real killer.”

“So you think whoever killed those girls killed Gabriel, too?”

“It’s a lot more likely than someone killing him for money.”

“Why?”

He glanced at me. “If someone owes you a lot of money and you kill him, will you ever collect?”

He was right. “So you want to find Mercedes and see what she knows?”

He nodded.

“And you need me because you think I’m someone she’ll trust,” I said. “But what makes you think she’ll talk to me?”

He bit his lip. “I hope by the time we find her, you’re feeling a little more positive about this.”

The “Hispanic” part of Soundview was tiny—just three or four blocks of small houses squeezed tightly together with fenced-in postage-stamp lawns and first-floor windows covered with metal grates.

“What are we looking for?” I asked as Whit drove slowly up one of the blocks.

“Mercedes, or maybe one of her men friends.”

Young mothers pushed strollers along the sidewalk. Kids played in the street. Men sat on stoops. “There.” I pointed at a low brown car in a driveway. “I think I’ve seen her come to work in that one.”

Whit parked and reached for the door, but I didn’t move. “You sure about this?” I asked nervously.

He turned and looked at me. “No. Have a better idea?”

For a second, neither of us budged. Then, without a word, we both got out. As I followed Whit up the steps to the house where the brown car was parked, an old man with the stump of a cigarillo in the corner of his mouth curiously lifted his wrinkled face to us. On the porch was a worn, sagging couch; some empty beer cans; and a child’s Big Wheel. Whit rang the bell. A moment later the door opened a fraction of an inch, and a woman peeked out apprehensively.

“¿Mercedes está aquí?” whit asked.

The woman shook her head.

Whit launched into Spanish, and they had a short conversation. His command of the language was much better than mine, and he spoke so quickly that I could understand only enough to know that he was pressing her and she was resisting. Finally, she said something about getting her son and backed away, leaving the door slightly open.

A minute passed. A couple of children came to the door and stared at us with big eyes. Then a deep voice from inside growled something, and the kids scattered. A bare-chested, heavily tattooed man appeared. His eyes were puffy from sleep, and his dark hair fell in thick strands into his eyes. He scratched himself and grumbled something in Spanish that sounded like slang. Once again Whit pressed. This time the conversation was even harder to follow. Both of them mentioned Mercedes’s name several times. The man kept shaking his head and saying that he didn’t know where Mercedes was.

It was obvious Whit didn’t believe him. As the tone of the conversation grew tenser, I began to feel scared and was tempted to tug on his sleeve and suggest we leave. But Whit stood his ground. It sounded like he was saying that he was a reporter and was about to run a story about how Mercedes was hiding somewhere here in town and how the police would be very interested in knowing that. And that the only way he wouldn’t run the story was if he could speak to her in person.

Finally, the man said that he had to consult someone and closed the door.

“Who’s he going to talk to?” I whispered.

“No idea.”

The man reappeared with a folded piece of paper and grumbled something threatening about how Whit would be sorry if he didn’t keep his word.

The address was a few blocks away, and when we got there, another heavily tattooed man was sitting on the porch, smoking a cigarette. I had a feeling he was waiting for us.

“You from the newspaper?” the man said.

“Yes.”

The man glanced at me, then back at Whit. “And her?”

“I’m Mercedes’s friend. Su amiga,” I said.

The man frowned skeptically.

“She works for my father…trabaja para mi padre…comprende?” I explained.

The man nodded, then turned and called loudly inside.

The door was opened by a heavy young woman with long black hair who led us inside to a small den where Pedro was sitting on the floor, playing with blocks. Mercedes was sitting on a couch next to an old woman with white hair. When she saw me, her eyes widened with surprise.

“Es tu amiga?” the heavy woman asked.6

Mercedes nodded.

“We need to talk with you, Mercedes,” I said, and put my hand on Whit’s arm. “This is my friend. He’s a reporter, and he’s trying to figure out who killed those girls. I trust him. I promise he won’t tell anyone we saw you. We really need your help. We’re not sure Janet is the real killer.”

Mercedes stared at her son and didn’t reply.

“Janet could go to jail for a murder she didn’t commit,” Whit said. “That would be a terrible thing. Not just for Janet, but for those of us who believe she’s innocent.”

Mercedes’s eyes were locked on Pedro. He was wearing a blue sweater my mom had knitted for him the winter before.

“Mercedes, we believe you pretended to disappear because you’re afraid for yourself and Pedro,” I said. “Something is scaring you. If Janet really were the killer, you’d have no reason to hide.”

Mercedes blinked. Was she fighting back tears?

“You heard about Gabriel?” Whit asked.

She nodded and a tear rolled down her cheek.

“So you have good reason to be frightened,” Whit said.

Except for the sounds of Pedro’s blocks knocking against one another, the room went quiet. Even Pedro looked up curiously, as if wondering why the talking had stopped.

Then I thought of something. “Mercedes, there’s one other thing I hope you can tell me. It’s something I really need to know, because I won’t be able to sleep tonight if you don’t.”

She visibly stiffened, then bent down and gathered Pedro in her arms.

“It wasn’t my dad, was it?” I asked. “I mean, I know he did bad things, but please tell me he didn’t kill those girls.”

Stroking Pedro’s head, Mercedes looked up at me with watery eyes. She shook her head and blinked. Tears ran down both of her cheeks. “No, not your father.”

I almost missed it. I was so eager to know that he was innocent that I almost didn’t get what she was saying. Feeling my jaw muscles tighten, I locked eyes with her and said, “Not…mi padre …”

Mercedes covered her eyes with her hand and turned away. My heart began to thud in my chest, and I suddenly found it hard to breathe. The sides of my head felt like they were in a vice. I looked at my watch. It was a little after one thirty p.m. “We have to go,” I said to Whit. “Right now!”