Free A Fierce and Subtle Poison by Samantha Mabry

sometimes unfair and illogical things happen, and those things have the ability to convince you fairness and logic are illusions, as real as wishes blown off dandelions.
    That’s when I remembered I had something real and concrete I could give her, even if it wasn’t what, who, she really wanted.
    “Here.” I wiped a sticky hand on my jeans and reached into my pocket. “I got you a present.” I pulled out the wolf charm I’d bought for Marisol and pushed it into Celia’s small palm. “You’re supposed to string it on a necklace, but you can just keep it with you until you can find a chain.”
    “You got this for
me
?”
    I adopted the confident tone and straight-spined posture of someone who wouldn’t be so shameless as to lie to a child. “Of course.”
    “Why?”
    I paused, scrambling for an answer. I’d bought the charm for Marisol as a token representing her big plans for the future, but now that the charm was Celia’s, it had to mean something different.
    “It’s a reminder for you to be brave,” I replied, “like a wolf.”
    Celia pinched the charm between her thumb and index finger and examined its hard details. I couldn’t tell if she believed me. Even so young, she seemed more naturally skeptical than her sister.
    “I’m going upstairs to check on Ruben, alright?” I said, clearing my throat and backing away. “Promise me you won’t handle the knife again. I don’t want you to get hurt.”
    Celia turned to watch me go. “I promise.” The absent way she said it made me wonder if
I
could believe
her
.
    I stood in front of Ruben’s closed door and listened to the muffled chatter of his television for a second before knocking and calling out his name. His reply was to tell me to get the hell away from his house—that no one needed my sympathy and that my being there was making everything worse.
    I was on my way back to the staircase when I heard a woman’s voice—clear like crystal—coming from the television inside Ruben’s room.
    “ . . . newly released details reveal connections between the cases of Sara Fikes and Marisol Reyes . . . ”
    I slammed the heel of my palm against the door. “Ruben! Let me in! I need to hear this!”
    “Are you deaf?” Ruben bellowed. “I said go away.”
    I pressed my ear against the wood. All I could hear were inaudible clicks and murmurs. Then, more plainly: “ . . . go now to Detective Mara Lopez, of the San Juan Police Department, who has been overseeing both investigations.”
    “Ruben!” I beat the door again. “What are they saying?”
    After being met with silence, I grabbed the doorknob with both my hands and shook it. No use. I hit the door again, determined not to stop until Ruben opened it. Finally, he did. Like it had been downstairs, the air in his room was stale, full of the stink of breath.
    “
What
is your problem?” he barked. “We’re trying to mourn here!”
    My eyes only landed on his face for a second, and I supposed he was grateful for that. It was obvious he’d been crying. His eyelids were swollen; pink streaks and splotches marred his cheeks.
    Ruben repeated his question, but by then I’d shifted my focus to the television. Detective Lopez had evidently just been asked a question, and her thin, red-painted lips were a tight line as she tried to formulate the appropriate response.
    “
Both of their bodies were found in the same general area,” she said into the cluster of microphones positioned in front of her face, “and they were in roughly the same physical condition.”
    “Can you describe that condition, detective?” asked someone off camera.
    Mara Lopez sighed, not out of impatience, but because she must have anticipated that what she was going to say next might be difficult for some people to hear.
    “For the most part their conditions are consistent with what we see from drowning victims here in the tropics. The temperature and saline content of the water along with the plant and marine life tend to