It was very good that Catalina had no previous experience in art. When Elena got her brushes out and began teaching her about how to start a painting, Catalina had to put her full attention to the task. It was a wonderful distraction from her dark suspicions and she threw herself into the project with the hope that it would go away.

But that night she couldn't help notice how much Sr. Tilve drank as well as ate. No one at home imbibed so much. Too, the man was restless, constantly on the phone or moving about or shouting at a staff member for some perceived mistake, never satisfied to just sit and talk with his family. Elena ignored all of this fuss, instead whispering to her friend underneath the television noise, and escaping from it as soon as possible. Enrique showed up at dinner after a long absence but excused himself soon after to respond to some emails. Catalina noticed he barely ate anything; instead, he moved the food around on his plate idly, giving every appearance of a big appetite without actually consuming half of what he was offered.

It was such a bizarre way to live: so much luxury, yet so little enjoyment in it. Her bedroom felt cold from the expensive air conditioning and empty in its vastness. She had already called the Aguirres and her parents to let them know of her safe arrival. Still, that night Catalina almost called them again, just to feel some reassurance. She knew what any of them would say if she whispered her fears, and that they were probably right. After all, Sr. Aguirre had delivered her to the Tilves himself! He was a very wise man, and would never knowingly give her up to someone of evil intent.

Going to Mass helped; everyone went together into town, and it was such a nice change to be out with other people that Catalina felt as if the air were actually lighter when they entered the church. But they didn't get to sit near anyone. Instead, the family had their own pew all the way at the front in a place of honor, separated from the rest of the congregation. There were very few others the age of fifty, except two small children huddled in the back with a grandmother.

Elena saw her confusion and leaned over to whisper, "It's a retirement community."

Lunch was outside, at Elena's request, and much better than the previous formal meals. Sr. Tilve continue his polite attentions to the point that it was difficult to think he might harm anyone. It was very pleasant, sitting out on the patio, enjoying chips and subs and ice cream. Enrique looked far more relaxed and Elena was bursting with ideas for the week. Catalina happily joined in, and when a walk was recommended, agreed immediately. There was a paved walkway circling the ranch house and pool, going all the way out to the flower garden and back. It was kept level even when the ground around it shifted, built up to be as smooth as possible for Elena's wheelchair, and wide enough to allow someone to walk beside her. It should have been a nice leisurely stroll.

Instead Sr. Tilve kept a brisk pace at the lead, and turned back so often to speak to Catalina, she felt she must hurry to keep up with him. Enrique kept behind them all, hands in his pockets, not saying much of anything unless specifically asked. He didn't look unhappy when Catalina glanced back, but neither did he show any signs of his usual energy.

As they came alongside the garden’s fence, Catalina looked over to spy the studio in the distance, separated from the walkway by a large path, gravely and uneven. It was as if someone had deliberately made it hard for Elena to reach it. Again, she wondered what could be hidden inside, and asked if they might see it next.

"What, that old shed? No, no, it's far too sunny out for us to shut ourselves indoors; you'll have quite enough of that tomorrow. Though perhaps it will not be so bad with Enrique to keep you company." He barked out a harsh laugh, amused by something, and Catalina realized any further pleading would be pointless. Instead, it was as if everyone's enjoyment of the day had been leached out but Sr. Tilve's. Elena left off talking, only pushing at her wheels in quiet determination, while Enrique fell farther behind, glancing down at his phone once or twice as if he were searching for a message.

Catalina, desperate for a subject beyond crops and markets, asked whether there was another game scheduled for the day on television. Sr. Tilve told her something much better was playing. "Does Señor Aguirre like to watch the races?" was the next curious non sequitur she tried to understand and failed at.

"No, not really, but sometimes I suppose."

"Well, after all, it would not do for every day, but there's a very fine lineup this afternoon. A friend of mine has sponsored one of the cars, and if they win today we're all going to see the championship leg in Buenos Aires later this year. Perhaps you'll be able to come as well."

It was beyond courteous, although Catalina felt her heart sink at the idea. Elena suddenly exclaimed that she was tired and wanted to turn back. "Would you push me, Enrique?"

He frowned slightly, but stepped forward and took the handles, turning her around to retreat back toward the house. Catalina quickly followed, unable to come even with her friends since Sr. Tilve insisted on keeping pace with her and explaining the many intricacies of racing, none of which she was interested in. Back inside, the television was turned on and switched to a sports channel at once. Catalina sat politely with Sr. Tilve, but wondered several times how she could escape and retreat to the back where Elena had gone to lie down. Just when she was certain she would be doomed to watch races all afternoon, Sr. Tilve's phone rang, and he started yelling almost at once, perturbed and pacing, everything else forgotten.

"Are you busy?" Enrique's voice startled her, coming as it did so close to the couch, and she turned to see him sitting on the back of it, laptop in hand. He didn't smile, quite, but his eyes twinkled familiarly. When Catalina whispered back that she was available, he called loudly, "I need to borrow our guest a moment, Papá."

Sr. Tilve turned around, started to say something, then waved them off as he listened to something else over the phone. Catalina quickly followed Enrique out of the living room and down the hall, tense and unnerved. What could possibly have made Sr. Tilve so upset? Why did he take all these strange phone calls, especially when they seemed to do nothing but anger him? And, she wondered again, why was his wife's art studio so neglected? Murder had seemed unlikely this morning at Mass, so out of place, so uncharacteristic. Perhaps it still was: surely Sr. Tilve, even at his angriest, would not try to kill anyone. But he did get so frightful sometimes, was so excitable, seemed to always be on the edge of a fit. And he said the strangest things. Perhaps he had not meant for anything to happen to anyone, but Catalina now wondered if that truly mattered. There were so many ways an accident could occur, so many possibilities for harming people; one wrong step, and people's lives could be shattered.

Enrique led her back to the sunroom, where he had set up a miniature office with several stacks of folders. "I thought you might like a break from all your entertainment," he said drolly, sitting down on couch with his laptop balanced on his knees.

"I'll be glad to help with anything," she offered, perching on a stool across from him.

"It's the billing, such a mix of private and public payers, they're always a pain to review at the end of each month. These invoices are way overdue, I found a big pile when I went in to check on the office. I swear, it's like no one files anything when I'm gone, they just stack everything up and think poor Señora Costas is going to do it all for them, when she's only part time herself."

Catalina nodded, wishing she had her notebook to jot information down in, and trying to remember if he'd told her about any of these things before. "So, what can I do?"

"I got most of them typed into the computer yesterday. Here, sit beside me, it'll be easier to show you, since you'll be doing a lot of this in the next week."

It was a welcome invitation, and she was happy to see the interface was the same one she had worked with before. It was smaller on Enrique's screen; some of the icons also looked different, making it hard to know what to select.

"Sorry, dumb Mac, I really should get a different one: here, click this key to pull up the menu." Enrique showed her, and Catalina practiced a few times, just to make sure she remembered.

"Will it look like that tomorrow?" she asked, experimenting with the strange mousepad.

"No, it’ll be more like you’re used to, but the machine at the clinic is a slow old goat. Took me forever to do anything since I stupidly left my laptop behind yesterday. The MacBook definitely speeds things up, even if it doesn't always play nice with everyone." He shook his head ruefully. "I should never have let Elena help me pick it out: she's an Apple true believer. There, you've got the hang of it, now, here's where you type the patient name, and you know where all the data goes in the system, right?"

"Yes, I did a lot of that," she answered cheerfully, sitting up straighter and prepping her hands over the keys.

"So happy, when I'm asking you to do something so tedious," he replied, his smile widening. "I need to double check that everything's correct before they process everything on Monday. I'm going to call out some patient IDs, then need you to look and make sure the payer name and number are correct when I read them, understand?"

"Sure, ready!"

It took a few minutes for her to work out a rhythm, but once she got going it was very easy, even fun, like a puzzle. The sun shone in on them, bathing the room in a balmy haze, and she noticed the air wasn't nearly so chill in this room as the others.

When she said something about it, Enrique paused as he hunted through another stack. "Sorry, I tend to cover the vents when I'm in here, Papá keeps the house like an igloo sometimes. Are you too warm?"

"No, it feels so good," she said at once. "We don't usually run the air so much at home. I guess I'm not used to it."

"There's a separate control for the system cooling the hallway you and Elena are on; it was built later, as an addition, so you can adjust it not to blast so hard. Get her to show you later, if she's stopped pouting." He had gradually moved to the floor, his shoes long since kicked off in a corner, with one arm leaning against a large wicker ottoman, fingers beating out a rhythm on the cushion. The folders were scattered all around him, though he unerringly knew which he'd done and which were still too check. "Ready for the next one?"

"Yes sir," she said, snatching her eyes back to the screen, striving to remember she should be working.

When he didn't recite a number, she looked up again, and saw he'd sat up straighter with a rueful expression. "I suppose we should get in more of a professional habit, seeing as how I'm supposed to supervise you. But please, no sir in the sunroom, I don't want to feel ancient just yet."

"Yes sir, I mean, sorry," she mumbled, not sure what to say.

"No, no, my fault," he said, and reached for the laptop. "Che, let's take a break. None of this has to get done today, promise. No, don't pick up any of those folders, you're not working right now."

"Right," she agreed, smiling shyly, watching as he pulled himself up on the ottoman. He had taken off his dress shirt at some point between their walk and asking her to join him, and now sat in just his T-shirt and khakis, tapping his right foot. "Do you listen to music all the time?" she asked, realizing how he never seemed to remain still, at least not when his father was around.

"What? Oh, no, just fidgety. I'm not made for an office, hence why I hate paperwork. Mamá used to make me count out the beats to pieces of music when I couldn't stop wiggling; I suppose I still do that sometimes. It helps with dancing, I have my own internal metronome that never quits."

It was the first time she could remember either brother or sister voluntarily sharing a story about their mother. Catalina leapt at the opportunity to discuss the woman. "Did she dance, too?"

"Yes, very well: Mamá loved all art, no matter what kind." Enrique tilted his head back. "She sang, too, and played the piano at a basic level. The gardens are still laid out to her specifications. If you look at them from overhead, the colors are coordinated, even the vegetables."

Catalina was again full of admiration for this woman, so seemingly full of life, and yet so absent from the house. "I don't remember seeing the piano, is it around?"

"No." Enrique stared out the windows, not saying anything for a moment, then sighed. "I suppose Elena told you about what happened to all her things?"

"Yes, a little."

"The piano is actually upstairs in an attic. See, there used to be a whole second floor to the house, but after the accident Papá had it leveled, and built on the extra hallway, so Elena could go everywhere. But they left part of the old building above the east wing, because that has the chimney. It's the only thing in the whole house that's older than us. I think some of the bricks are from the 1800s too. It's just storage now, all piled up and gathering dust."

"How did the piano get up there?" Catalina asked, struck by the image of an ancient, forgotten room, one that might contain even more mysteries than the studio!

"It never left; there was a ballroom upstairs, yes, I know, an actual ballroom!" Enrique chuckled, shaking his head. "I think it was added in the '20s, probably when someone was drunk, because who would put a ballroom on the top floor? Anyway, when everything was being torn apart, Papá told them to put anything left in that room. It's all still there." He winked at her, his grin turning lopsided. "And yes, I'm sure there's a ghost or two, maybe even some buried treasure as well. Who knows? No one's been through it in years. Maybe, if you listen carefully at night, you'll hear some haunting music."

Catalina laughed nervously. He must be teasing her, of course, but it echoed her thoughts exactly, and sounded so likely to be true that she couldn't help wondering if he might be warning her as well. "How would I hear all the way in my room?" she pointed out this flaw in his logic, wondering what he would say.

"Ah, but there are two stairs to access this mysterious realm: one in the east wing, near the kitchen, and the other hidden behind a door just across from the bedrooms on your hallway. So you see, it is useless to think you can escape the mysteries of Aldea Norteña. You must be on your guard, Señorita Catalina, because who knows what could be hidden from your eyes?"

She almost asked him about his mother's fate right then and there, convinced he was on the verge of revealing something even more dreadful than all that she'd heard yet, but then he picked up a stack of folders. "And another warning: please do not repeat a word of what I just said to Elena, or she will claim I am frightening you out of your wits. But I think a lady who can face down Señora Mundo must be made of sterner stuff. You're not afraid, are you?"

"No, no of course not," she said bravely, and went back to work with many more things to ponder.

They didn't keep at it much longer, mostly because Elena herself came in to join them, and immediately chided Enrique for luring Catalina into a job. "You'll have her all tomorrow, why make her do stuff for you now!"

"Well, since you locked yourself in your room, what were we to do?" he said innocently, not apologetic at all as he tidied up his piles.

"I was resting and reading, gracias, Catalina could have joined me at any time." Elena turned to her with a pensive look. "I'm sorry, I should have told you, come on in whenever you like, I don't mind. I just wanted to lay down, after.... I mean, sometimes I get tired going all over the ranch."

"No worries, I didn't mind," Catalina told her. "I wouldn't want to disturb your rest."

"No, no, it's fine, I really just wanted to get away from Papá," Elena admitted. "He's unbearable when watching a race."

The two girls spent the rest of the evening together, apart from dinner, held once again in the formal and increasingly awkward dining room. Back in Elena's room, at Catalina's prompting, they looked at her album of old pictures. She was surprised when Sra. Tilve was pointed out. "None of you look like her."

"No, not even Enrique, even though he has her eyes. Someone said once he looked like Papá Delgado, but I don't have many pictures of him. Here, that's my mother in her wedding dress, with her father."

The lady looked so pretty and vivacious, even in the small snapshot. "She's beautiful!"

"Yeah, beautiful, and talented, and gentle. Everyone loved her. Sometimes...." Elena flipped a page, trailing off, then flipped another. "Sometimes, I'm jealous of her. Or the memory of her. Isn't that so stupid?"

Catalina wasn't sure what to say; it was not a concept she was familiar with. Jealousy was reserved for fighting over dolls and toys as a kid, something to be put away by your first catechism and certainly had no place in the life of anyone so lovely and smart as Elena. "It must be hard, to miss her so much," she said at last, softly. "Gracias for sharing the pictures with me."

Elena looked at her with large eyes, gradually smiling. "You're welcome. And some of them are really silly: you should see the awful hairstyles!" They whooped over mullets and beehives, and one picture that showed Sra. Tilve in a truly frightening orange dress that made her look sick. They kept talking even after putting the pictures away, although Catalina felt she had to get to bed before too late since she had an early start. "But we can do more tomorrow, when I get back," she promised, hugging her friend.

She'd forgotten to ask Elena about the thermostat, and so snuggled under more blankets that night. The ranch was so different than she'd expected in appearance, but in character it was much closer to a telenovela setting than she'd originally suspected. There was definitely an unpleasant secret lurking below the surface. Now she realized it probably wasn't in the studio at all. No, Elena could still reach there, if she tried hard enough. With all Sr. Tilve had done to accommodate his daughter, he had intentionally kept that top room out of her reach.

But Enrique must have seen it, must be familiar with its contents, and no matter how much he smiled, she felt certain he knew what was hidden away within those walls. It was obvious he didn't like to be at the ranch more than he had to, and avoided his father even when here. And, she remembered, his brother had not even come at all. Why would two sons, so dutiful otherwise, stay far away from their home unless it made them uncomfortable to return? And what could be more uninviting than knowing the truth of your mother's death, and unable to do anything about it?

There must be a clue of some kind buried up there, perhaps in the lady's piano, or among her old belongings. Likely Sr. Tilve had it locked and maybe even guarded. Despite how busy Catalina might become with her new duties and keeping Elena company, there must be some way for her to discover the room's secrets. It wouldn't do to involve her friend: she was already so troubled by memories of her mother. Enrique likely kept silent out of concern for his sister. So it was up to Catalina to help them, as any true friend would. She vowed to accomplish her mission before the week was out.