“Filters?” I say again, and she laughs.
“Oh no, my boy, this is a Nespresso machine.”
“Like a Keurig?”
Alma’s eyes go wide, and she lets out a dramatic gasp.“¡Nombre!” She crosses herself in exaggerated fashion. “Not in the year of my lord and savior Bad Bunny. No, señor. Nespresso is nothing like a Keurig. Nespresso isdivine revelation.”
“So boujee bean water?” My brow arches as i watch her reach into a drawer to grab a small pod.
“No. This coffee is like Holy water for bad bitches. Here,” she hands me her drink, then frowns when she sees me hesitate. “Its not poisioned. I promise. Cross my heart and hope to die.”
She makes a cross over her heart and lifts the straw up to my lips. Just close enough that her fingers brush my mouth. Leaning forward I take the straw in my mouth. I look up briefly to see her long lashes lowered on to me. Our eyes meet before i release the straw and stand up straight. Her breathing shifts slightly as she turns back to the coffee machine.
“It’s a pistachio flavored pod over iced with horchata.” She says nervously as she prepares mine.
“Not bad,” I comment. “But the horchata could be better.”
“And you think you can make a better horchata thanEl Mexicano?” she says turning to face me.
“Absolutely.”
“Well I’ll be the judge of that. I am a certified Whorechata.” she teases.
“I like that.” I laugh and shake my head.
Alma offers a playful smile, and sits down at the small table. I move to the fridge and pull out the eggs, bacon, tortillas and fresh panela. Alma pretends to scroll her phone but i can feel her eyes on me as I move around the kitchen preparing her a plate.
“For me?” she asks when I set her plate down first.
“Of course Kitten. I’m not a complete monster.”
Icut the panela and set it on the table alongside some tortillas fresh off the comal. And add small avocado roses.
“I really appreciate it.” She says her expression softening. “Not just for the food but for helping me last night.”
Between the three of us, Me, Alma, and Ricky—Lurch was just there for the vibes apparently—we covered most of the house and didn’t find anything. A slight smile twitches from the corners of her lips, but then it’s gone.
“Missy was a breakfast type of mom. She’d never let me leave the house with an empty stomach, you know?”
I take a sip of the coffee and nod my head. Alma looks at me, but it feels more like she’s looking through me. Like she’s trying desperately to stay inside a lost memory.
“What’s the story with her? I mean, when did you find out she wasn’t your biological mother?”
“After Esteban died. The detective on the case was looking up my criminal history and couldn’t find a single trace of me. No birth certificate or record of adoption. Nothing.”
“Detective Johnson?” I ask
“Ya, her. She was helping me a lot at first. I don’t know how many DNA tests I took or submitted to different ancestry sites. Nothing ever took, and after a while, I guess she grew bored.”
“What made you think Curtis knew something?”
“He recognized me when I started at La Cuevita. He said Missy had sent him pictures of us together. At first, I didn’t believe him, but then he would give me bits and pieces of information that lined up. Vacations we went on and the different towns we’d move to.”
“So he knew her?”
“He had to. We moved around a lot, and Missy was skeptical of trusting anyone. I never saw her make friends.”
“And did he give you information?”
