Page 102 of Vow of Silence

“How does it look?” Brigida calls from the lavish sitting area between the changing rooms.

“Just a minute.” I hastily change into the bright blood-red silk blouse and pair the off-white jacket over the top. Fuck her for being right—it brings out the cool highlights in my hair and the red spells business. I secure the belt around the combo, accentuating my waist and widening my shoulder profile.

“What do you think?” I ask, stepping out for her perusal.

In all truth, I don’t give a fuck what she thinks.

“Perfect.” She places a palm on her breastbone.

“I thought so, too.” Exactly what a woman in charge of her destiny would wear.

She holds my gaze, the corners of her eyes slightly squinting when I fail to return to the changing room. “Do you need something else?”

“When are we going to talk about her?”

Brigida sighs, dropping her chin as she turns for the velvet-upholstered chair.

“Shopping is fun and all,” I sass, “but you teased about my mother on the way here and then conveniently forgot about it the moment you stepped out of the car. I want to know what you think I don’t.”

Benito’s mother raises one hand, shooing the lingering assistant out of earshot. The timid woman performs a janky half-bow and flees from our presence, the click of the shop door soon following.

“Where is she going?” I ask, nodding toward the sound.

“Not far. She’ll likely wait out front.”

“You do this often, huh?”

“Women’s affairs are discussed in less formal spaces than our male counterparts.” She fixes a small smile. “What better place than somewhere the men have no interest in sharing?”

I draw a staggered breath and then reach down to uncinch the belt. “You’ve got as long as it takes me to get out of this clothing to cut to the chase.” I return to the changing room, leaving the door open to hear her better.

“What did your father tell you of your mother’s death?”

I pause, hand mid-air with the belt halfway to the hook on the wall. “What we all know.” I hitch the leather strap and remove the jacket and blouse. “It was a car accident. Ruled a suicide, but our family’s suspicion is it was intentional. They say she died almost instantly.” I swallow hard, fixating on returning the jacket to its hanger.

“Did he say why he suspected foul play?”

“No.” I take stock of my reflection, bare save for my jeans and decorative bra. “I was young. I guess he wanted to protect me from unnecessary worry.” My hand drifts to the puffiness around my mid-section. “I didn’t find that out until years later. I struggled with the notion she’d done that to herself for so long. It never felt right.”

“You were, what? Fifteen? Sixteen when it happened?”

“Fifteen.”

“You weren’t that young at all.” Brigida sighs. “And I suppose he’s spoken nothing of it since.”

“What occasion would he have to?” I tug my sweater over my head and turn away from the duplicate of me on the wall. “It’s not as though we commemorate her death by sitting around and reliving the circumstances each year.”

A beat passes before she responds flatly, “No. I suppose not.”

“What is it I don’t know then?” I leave the items hanging on the hooks and step out the door. The saleswoman can collect them to package herself if Brigida desires to spend the money.

Benito’s mother gestures to the chair that matches hers, a few feet from where she resides.

I ease onto the ridiculously cushy seat and set my hands in my lap.

“I suspect your father knew full well what made your mother a target.”

“Really.” I school my features. “What makes you so confident of that?”

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