Page 118 of What the River Knows

He read the letter, his other hand still clenched in a fist and pressed tight against his thigh. When he finished, he folded the note and handed it back to me.

“Is that all?” His voice sounded strained, as if he were trying to rein in his temper.

I shook my head. “She told me Tío Ricardo murdered my father.”

“What?”

I flinched. “I overheard him talking about Papá, that first night I stole onto the dahabeeyah. It sounded like they’d argued.”

“They did, but your uncle did not kill your father.”

“Thenwhodid?” I exclaimed. “It became very clear that my uncle was lying to me from the start. Making up some harebrained story about my parents getting lost in the desert. I didn’t know what to think, who to believe. I still don’t know if I can trustyou. In Cairo, I found a letter my mother had written addressed to Monsieur Maspero, asking for help because she believed her brother had turned into a criminal.”

He positioned himself so that he was sitting cross-legged in front of me. “Your uncle isn’t involved in the smuggling trade, Inez.” He took a deep breath. “There’s an organization named The Company, and members are called Curators. They are the ones who run Tradesman’s Gate, and your mother procures goods for their auctions.”

I fought to make sense of his words, putting the pieces together and trying to understand what he told me. “My mother is a Curator,” I repeated.

Whit nodded. “Ricardo suspected the truth, but he also thought that your father was involved.” He met my eyes, careful and guarded. “Are you saying he isn’t?”

“Not according to my mother,” I whispered. “She sayshe’s dead.”

Whit paled, and tugged at his hair. “You have to know something, Inez. She was… having an affair. I found out by accident, and she made me swear not to say anything. Promised me that it was a mistake, that she was ending it. But afterward, I noticed she was gone for long stretches of time. Barely writing to your father. I thought then she might still be.”

Thunder boomed in my ears.

I couldn’t believe what Whit had told me. It was wrong, like a moonless night or a dry riverbed. I shook my head, the ringing in my mind growing louder.

When I spoke again, my voice was hoarse. “She seemed so glad to see me.”

“That could have been real.” He hesitated. “How much was she able to take?”

I let out a bitter laugh. “Close to three hundred artifacts in the form of jewelry, funerary boats, and limestone statues.”

A peculiar expression crossed his face, as if he’d had a thought that devastated him. “What about any parchment rolls? A single sheet?”

I raised my brows. “Mamá asked about a single sheet, too. Iknewyou’ve been looking for something. What is it?”

“It would have had a drawing of a snake eating itself. An ouroboros. Does that sound familiar?”

I shook my head.

“The sheet would also have had writing in Greek, more drawings and diagrams,” Whit pressed. “It would have looked like instructions.”

“No,” I said. “I didn’t find anything like that. What is it?”

“Alchemy,” he said.

“Alchemy?” I repeated.

“It’s not important now. What matters is Lourdes.”

Right. My mother, the thief.

“There’s still something I don’t understand. What about the letter to Maspero?”

“The one you found in their hotel room? She could have easily planted that. Think about it—why wouldn’t she have sent it?”

The envelope came vividly to mind. The weight and feel of it, the creasedletter within. It hadn’t even been stamped. I wanted to argue, to defend her, but words failed me. Every moment with her was tainted, ruined by her deceit. And like a foolish child, I’d helped her steal priceless works of art with monumental historical significance. My uncle would be devastated when he learned of the truth.

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