Malediction: An Old World Story Read Online Free PDF Page A

learn more about my sister’s murder.
    Finally, I received word Petra Corbett had agreed to see me, for whatever reason—maybe just out of boredom—and a little over a week after my conversation with Sam, I had all my ducks in a row. I wasn’t sure my wheezy Subaru could make the fifteen-hour drive, so I booked a plane ticket and a rental car instead, and found a cheap hotel in the Valley. I gritted my teeth at the expense, which was nearly half my checking account, but it wasn’t like I could put a price on the information.

    I landed in Los Angeles on the Saturday afternoon before my appointment to see Corbett. The most obvious use of my extra time was to talk to Lizzy Thompkins, the survivor who’d been with Sam the night she died. We’d never met—she and Sam weren’t close, as I understood it, and she hadn’t come to the memorials, but she would be the person who knew the most about my sister’s last hours.
    Unfortunately, when I tried to look her up from Boulder, I couldn’t find any sign of her. Lizzy seemed to have disappeared, at least from the Internet. I’d expanded my search range, messing around for hours on both Facebook and the web page for the organization where Sam, Ruanna, and Lizzy had all volunteered—but no dice. She’d just sort of vanished.
    With Lizzy ruled out, I considered visiting the actual site of the killings before deciding against it. The police had probably spent weeks picking over every last square inch of that location, so I was unlikely to learn anything new. It would stay on my list of last-resort options in case I couldn’t find answers elsewhere, though. For now, I headed down to Long Beach to visit Ruanna Martinez’s husband and kids.
    I’d met them before, in better times. On a previous trip to LA, Sam and I had picked up Ruanna for a girls’ night out. Then I’d talked to Ernesto briefly when I came to town to try and find Sam. And, of course, I’d seen him and the kids at Ruanna’s memorial service. Her youngest daughter, Gabby, had taken a brief shine to me that day, and I’d walked the toddler around and around the church courtyard in circles until it was time for her nap.
    I called ahead, and Ruanna’s husband Ernesto opened the front door before I even got out of the rental car. He was a short, barrel-shaped man with sad eyes and a look of exhaustion etched into his leathery face, but he still put on a welcoming smile as I headed up the sidewalk. “Allison,” he said, reaching out to embrace me. I’ve never liked being called Allison, but Ernesto didn’t know that, and if I said anything now he’d feel bad.
    “Hello, Ernesto,” I said, returning the hug. I’m not a hugger, either, but I have a big family, and I recognized the gesture for what it was: a sign that my presence was not just welcome—it was appreciated. Inside the little one-story house, I said hello to the three Martinez kids: Antone, Angelica, and Gabriella, who hid behind her father for a moment, darted out to throw her arms around my waist, and then raced back into the house. Ernesto and I laughed, and I noticed that his laugh sounded creaky, like he hadn’t used it in a while.
    Like in many homes, the kitchen was clearly the center of the Martinez family’s personal universe. We sat down at the big wooden table in the middle of the room, and I pretended not to notice the stacks of clutter on every surface, dirty dishes in the sink, and toys on the floor. The house was a mess, but it wasn’t that much worse than some of my cousins’ homes back in Boulder. Ernesto made coffee, and we chatted about Los Angeles weather and my flight. I gave them an update on Charlie, who was saying a lot of words now, though not always very well. After a few minutes of this, Antone and Angelica wandered off to the living room to watch TV with Gabby.
    Ernesto set a mug of coffee in front of me and sat down. I took a sip, letting him get settled, and finally asked the question I’d been holding