“Late night customers. I’m giving them empanadas and beer. Is Pen sleeping?”

Juan shook his head, noting for the umpteenth time the irony of the fact that the Hispanic pronunciation of their colicky baby’s nickname made it a homonym of “pain.”

“Not yet, but she’s quiet. She’s staring at the mobile, and my cousin’s listening for her.”

Juan’s cousin worked in the hospital, and she’d provided Rosa with the leftover magazines that she’d used to make the mobile. Rosa had cut out the perfume ads and attached them to a resculpted wire hanger. She liked the ones with people she recognized, that had scented strips included, so she’d searched especially for those. Now her baby could stare up at various floating celebrities, all smelling like flowers.

Rosa filled a basket with tortilla chips and poured some salsa into a bowl.

“Here, let me help,” Juan offered.

He gathered some water glasses and a bottle of his hot sauce and followed his wife into the main room. He’d noticed that she seemed alive again, and he didn’t want to miss a moment of it.

Jiminy had knocked on Carlos’s motel room door two hours before, waking him from the nap he’d accidentally slipped into during his meditative efforts. Carlos had been surprised to see her.

“Hi,” he said, as he tried to remember whether they’d been scheduled to meet.

They hadn’t. Not till the next day, when they were going to interview the former sheriff together. Jiminy was clutching something in her arms. From the way she looked at him, Carlos was aware that he represented something important to her. Some brand of salvation, it seemed. He knew this was dangerous. He moved to allow her to come inside.

“I hope I’m not bothering you,” she said.

“You’re not. What time is it?” he asked, gripping the wrist where he normally wore his watch.

He could see it lying on the bedside table. When had he taken it off? Had he been planning to sleep after all? It was dark out now, and it had been midday when he’d lain down.

Jiminy checked the watch strapped to one of her thin little wrists. To Carlos, everything about her seemed problematically delicate.

“Nine thirty,” she answered.

“Wow,” Carlos replied, running his hands through his hair.

“At night,” she added.

Carlos grinned.

“You can tell I’m a bit turned around. What brings you here?”

“I wanted to show you this,” she replied, indicating the album she still had clutched to her chest. “My grandmother gave it to me.”

Actually, it had been waiting for Jiminy on her bed with a note from Willa, who had apparently gone out. Willa preferred to communicate in absentia whenever possible.

The note read, “Your grandfather’s photos. Use them if they can help. The litter box needs changing.”

The last line had been added in a different colored pen, most likely after Willa had entered Jiminy’s room and discovered the kitten she’d been secretly keeping. Cholera had still been there when Jiminy came in, so at least Willa hadn’t opted for an immediate removal. Jiminy waited for her grandmother to return, since they obviously had much to discuss, but as it grew later, she grew increasingly restless. Especially after looking at the pictures, Jiminy didn’t want to be alone. She tried calling Bo, but he wasn’t home, and she then spent too long torturing herself with thoughts of what he might be doing. Finally, she started walking. Along the way, she forced herself to turn toward the motel where Carlos was staying, away from the road that led to Bo’s trailer.

And so she’d woken Carlos, who was now gazing down at her chest. In his defense, that’s where the album still rested.

“I’m really hungry,” Jiminy said, suddenly realizing she was.

Behind her, lights flickered in the restaurant down the road. Carlos glanced toward it, then back down at the young woman beside him. He liked the way she smelled.

“Well, let’s get you taken care of then,” he replied. “You up for some Mexican?”

He hadn’t meant it at all the way someone else might take it. But he’d said it; it was out there. Jiminy smiled, and he searched her smile for slyness.

“You bet,” she answered, before he could be sure of anything.

A short time later they were sitting across from each other at a bright blue table, having just finished their second beer each, along with a delicious meal. Carlos looked at Jiminy expectantly.

“Here,” she said, pushing the album across the table toward him.

Carlos looked carefully at each photo. The one of Willa made her seem accessible enough, though fuzzy and slightly out of focus. Lyn was unmistakable. A younger olive tree, smokier and smoother.

When Carlos reached the group of photos in the envelope at the back, he breathed in sharply.

“I know,” Jiminy said.

“Who took these?” Carlos asked.

“My grandfather,” Jiminy answered. “He was a carpenter who couldn’t work with wood and a photographer who never told anyone.”

“He was a journalist,” Carlos replied. “These aren’t candids. These are for a record.”

Jiminy scooted her chair around the table so she could be next to Carlos and see the pictures with him.

“They were all so young,” she said pointlessly.

Carlos looked down at the back of her bent head, watching how her dark hair fell like a river down her neck. He breathed in her tropical scent.

“Do you think Henry knew who killed Edward and Jiminy?” Jiminy raised her head to ask. “Do you think anyone does?”

Carlos nodded.

“Yes, I imagine some people do.”

“How do we find them? How do we get them to talk?” she asked.

Carlos gazed at her.

“We work,” he replied. “And we think, and we plan. We hope for some lucky breaks. And if we get them, I call the FBI and they open a federal case alleging civil rights violations. We compel people to testify under oath. But to get to that point, we’ve got a lot of work to do. Can you handle it?”

Jiminy nodded.

“Now that I’m a law school dropout, I’ve got all the time in the world,” she replied.

Carlos took another sip of his beer.

“Why’d you quit?” he asked.

“Too much work,” Jiminy said wryly. “Or at least too much pointless work that didn’t seem to really help anyone. So I bailed, and came here, and stumbled across this awful thing that happened, and now all I want is to find out who did it and get justice, which is why I need someone who knows the law,” she finished sardonically.

“So maybe you’ll reconsider?” Carlos asked. “Take it up again?”

Jiminy shook her head.

“I’m not cut out to be a lawyer. I don’t know what I’m cut out for. I wish I wasn’t such a coward.”

“A coward?” Carlos repeated.

Jiminy nodded. “Through and through.”

Carlos shook his head.

“I’ve met plenty of cowards,” he said. “Trust me, you’re not one.”

“Oh, give me a little time,” Jiminy answered. “Anyway, I don’t think I ever really wanted to be a lawyer.”

“What did you want to be?”

She took a moment to consider.

“Brave,” she finally answered. “Someone who makes an impact. But considering I can’t even make it through law school . . .”

“Why’d you come here?”

“Random impulse. First place that popped into my head. Possibly because I saw a T-shirt that said ‘Tupelo Honey.’ ”

“And then you just happened to uncover this long-buried crime and decided to try to solve it.”

“Yeah.”

Carlos looked at her steadily.

“Sounds pretty brave and impactful to me.”

Jiminy thought about this. She smiled.

“We’ll see.”

She took another sip of her beer and noticed that the bottle was almost empty.

“It must be past midnight,” she remarked.

Rosa emerged from the kitchen, where she’d been watching through the screen slats.

“More Corona?” she asked.

“I think just the bill,” Carlos replied.

Rosa placed it on the table.