As expected, Madre Martinez wasn’t exactly welcoming. Barely opening the door, she shot Demis a dark look and barked,

  “I told you guys not to come here again!”

  Demis was slightly surprised—he didn’t remember her ever saying that. He braced himself for another thunderous lecture about the rich and the poor. However, contrary to his expectations, Mrs. Martinez immediately tried to slam the door shut. But Demis was quicker. He stuck his foot in the doorway and threw his shoulder against it. After a short struggle, Martinez gave up.

  Ralph, who had been standing behind him, invisible to Martinez in the gloomy, narrow hallway, squeezed past Demis and slipped through the door. Mrs. Martinez was forced to retreat farther into the hallway.

  It was quite dark there, too. But Martinez’s eyes were apparently accustomed to the dim light. She looked him up and down. He rather sensed than saw a hint of irritation on her face.

  “Oh, so you’re not with the police.”

  It wasn’t a question.

  Ralph gave her a quick glance. His eyes had more or less adjusted to the dim lighting, so he began surveying the place. Demis also stepped inside and closed the door. The tiny apartment immediately felt cramped and even darker—Martinez took a few more steps back and now stood in the kitchen doorway, blocking the dim light from the window.

  “What do you want?” she asked.

  Her hostility was obvious, but the fact that they weren’t with the police seemed to work in their favor.

  “Doctor Abigail Martinez,” Demis said. “Can we see her?”

  To his surprise, Madre Martinez didn’t react. She stood motionless in the doorway, her arms crossed over her chest, examining Ralph with the gaze of an entomologist.

  “Does that name ring a bell?” Ralph asked casually.

  “Of course,” Martinez replied, then fell silent again.

  The pause stretched. Ralph, who had been scanning the interior with a steady gaze, finally turned his attention to the hostess. He stepped closer.

  “Of course,” he repeated softly. “So, what is it?”

  “That used to be my daughter’s name,” the woman said flatly.

  “Used to be,” Ralph echoed, still softly. “Has something changed?”

  A wry smile crossed Martinez’s face.

  “It used to be, back when I had a daughter,” she answered as if in passing.

  The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.

  “Had?”

  Demis glanced at Ralph, who kept his gaze fixed on Martinez.

  “What happened to Miss Martinez?” he asked quietly.

  “She grew up,” she replied.

  “And?”

  “Puff!” The woman flapped her hands like wings right in Ralph’s face. He blinked in surprise. The woman burst out laughing and rubbed her hands together with satisfaction.

  Then her laughter faded. Ralph continued to look down at her, showing no intention of moving. She crossed her arms again and looked at him defiantly.

  “If you’re not with the police, I’m not obliged to answer your questions,” she said.

  Ralph nodded.

  “You’re not, indeed,” he said indifferently. “I’m not insisting.”

  Then he stepped forward, forcing Martinez to back away again, and entered the kitchen.

  “So which way did she—puff?” Demis asked, taking up a position in the doorway and blocking Martinez inside the kitchen.

  “Even if I did know...” She snorted. “I don’t want to know. She’s grown up. And smart.”

  Martinez practically spat the words out. Her voice suddenly changed, sharp with bitterness.

  “She’s so smart she even managed to lie to her mother for years, milk a rich man for money, and become a doctor. A doctor!” she barked.

  “Don’t you like doctors, Mrs. Martinez?” Ralph asked nonchalantly. “All of them, or just certain ones?”

  He examined the wretched furnishings of the kitchen with the bored curiosity of a tourist. The furniture seemed to interest him more than the hostess or her opinions.

  “And you do, of course,” Martinez said, looking him over again.

  Ralph nodded.

  “One of them recently saved my life,” he said. “But you’re right—that’s no reason to love them. That doctor was just doing her job.”

  Martinez snorted.

  “Don’t be silly. Their job is to con rich people like you.”

  She turned to the sink, where a mountain of dirty dishes lay piled high. Her voice dropped to a barely audible murmur:

  “Merchants of life. Merchants of death.”

  Ralph glanced back at her. For the first time, a flicker of curiosity appeared in his eyes.

  “How did you know we weren’t with the police?” he asked suddenly.

  Martinez replied with a wry smile:

  “In a suit like that? A cop would have to work a whole year just to afford the buttons.”

  Her voice was full of scorn.

  Ralph exchanged a glance with Demis. A faint smile played on his lips.

  “What did they actually want from your daughter, Mrs. Martinez?” he asked.

  “The police?” Martinez chuckled. “They said she wreaked havoc on the Willowbys. Or rather, the Warrens now. They say she smashed a ton of expensive dishes.”

  Martinez burst out laughing, but it stopped abruptly.

  “Willowbys,” she repeated. Her voice changed. Ralph couldn’t help but turn and stare at her.

  “Damned Willowbys…”

  Her voice dropped to a whisper. She bent over the sink and rested her palms on its edge.

  “You mean Charlie’s family?” Demis asked loudly. “His widow?”

  Martinez started, as if waking from a daze.

  “Susan?” She looked at him in surprise.

  Then she gave a short, contemptuous laugh.

  “Oh, no. I’m actually grateful to that gold-digging whore,” she said. “She trampled at least one Willowby. She and her daughter made his life miserable, drove him to the grave by refusing to pay his hospital bills, and finally inherited all his property. Applause.”

  The woman clapped her hands loudly several times.

  “Is that all?” Ralph asked, his tone casual. “The police only bothered you over a couple of broken cups?”

  Madre Martinez pursed her lips and scowled at him.

  Of course, it was something else.

  “None of your business,” Madre Martinez muttered through her teeth.

  She folded her arms tightly across her chest, tucking her fingers into her sleeves, and sank her chin into the high neckline—as if she wanted to disappear into the depths of her shapeless, well-worn sweater.

  Ralph winced, as if he hadn’t expected any other answer. He gently pushed the woman aside, left the kitchen, and headed deeper into the apartment in search of Abigail’s room.