The Problem With Valerie

Helene Newley wasn’t always the forthright, powerful woman she is known to be today. In fact her new personna might be a cover for some unfinished business down in her gut—those forgotten festering, untended wounds. Helene landed in Pancho La Paz only a year ago: fragile, divorced and experiencing a “walking” nervous breakdown. After Hank left her, Helene snapped. She was soon declared "unfit" for her pre-school job and she spiraled, ignoring the bills, the mortgage, the doctors...until she finally lost her Houston home. Childless and alone, unhoused and unemployable, Helene had to either swallow her entire bottle of Tramadol or change everything about her life. (Easier to swallow the Tramadol.) So she planned her overdose for April Fool’s Day. The day came and she finally got open the child proof cap when a faint voice said…

Don’t do it. You’d be killing the wrong person.

Helene was on the fence anyway. So instead, she crammed her wardobe and a few sentimental items in four suitcases, filled the gas tank of her ‘07 Honda Accord and headed South in a daze.

Two hundred sixty five miles from the Texas/Mexico border, Helene stopped in the small colonial city of Pancho La Paz, where she felt a sudden urge to order a gordita and get a room for the night. Something about the smells and sounds of this place called to her. There was no one in line at this darkish corner in a sprawling mercado.

"You speak English here?"

"Si! What would you like, nice lady?"

The first human she’d spoken with in years that was kind. It was a shock.

Helene chose a red table, immediately noticing a discarded flier for a “Mindfulness” retreat. Mindfulness. Gag. Her psychiatrist had suggested this mindfulness business enough times and now here it was again—in another country. Maybe it's a sign. Helene felt eyes on her and she wasn’t wrong. There was a blonde woman clocking her three tables down. They exchanged a smile. What followed came as near as it gets to complete and total destruction.

Eva had a Southern hospitality vibe that Helene recognized. She was tall, big-boned, loud—a lot like Helene’s mother and aunts. Though twenty years Helene’s junior, Eva had a take charge attitude that Helene needed. After Helene’s recent trauma, Eva’s willingness to rescue her was understandably seductive. She guided Helene around town and introduced her to a couple of oddball type expat friends. Eva encouraged Helene to stop running and rest in Pancho La Paz, even for a month. She was the protective friend others dream to have. Eva decided Helene should enter that Mindfulness Retreat to "empower yourself." Before Helene could say no, Eva enrolled her..

“You’re gonna heal here, honey! I did. Don’t ya see the signs? This is meant to be. You can pay me back when you get the money.”

Helene relented, but somewhere inside she knew everything happening right now was too good to be true.

A day into the wellness retreat, Helene befriended a mangey street dog lurking around the courtyard. She thought he looked like Hank so at first she was repeled by the dog. But Ken the Life Coach suggested she befriend the dog. Ken handed her some lit sage to wave around the dog

"Use him as a tool to forgive Hank. There is no healing without forgiveness."

“I will not forgive Hank. But I will forgive that sad dog for reminding me of him.”

Ken the Lifecoach challenged her to keep the dog as a Comfort Animal. She’d worked at the Scottish Terrier Rescue in Houston and she longed to feel useful again. One of the local kids who worked for Lifecoach Ken told Helen the dog’s name was Zorro.

“Because he looks like a fox,” Eva chirped when she learned the good news of Helene's adoption of Zorro.

Eva checked daily on Helene, like a devoted friend. It was on a particularly emotional visit, Helene broke down sobbing over the past and panicking over her future. Eva’s eyes lit up.

“Helene? It’s time. This is what I’ve been waiting to tell you.”

She held her phone in front of Helene and swiped a series of photos of a stunning, gorgeously furnished hacienda.

“I lived here for years. Just moved to a bigger place. I mean, it just sits there and I have to pay the lease on it ‘til the end of the year. It’s all yours. I believe in you, Helene. You’re gonna make it.”

Helene's tears turned from fear to relief and gratitude. She cried even harder.

“And honey? Because you rescued ol' Zorro, I will lower the rent to $1500 a month so you can feed him quality meals. Only grass fed cows for Zorrol!”

Helene stopped her.

“Wait. What am I thinking!? I can’t. I don’t have income!”

“Okay, let’s put our heads together now! There’s a path through this, honey. There's always a way. Credit card? IRA? Family?”

Helene suddenly remembered: Hank owed her six months of back alimony but she had no idea where he was.

"Dont you worry about that! We're gonna track down his ass."

A self proclaimed former bounty hunter, Eva vowed she could find Hank blindfolded with her hands and feet bound. Helene deputized Eva with everything she needed to hunt Hank. Lickety split! On day six of the seven day retreat, Eva returned to Helene bubbling with pride.

“You’re right, that beady eyed fox does look like Zorro. But don’t you hold it against that poor dog.”

Eva, who said she dealt in cash only, held up the bills to Helene's face.

“Three of Hank's six grand covers first, last and security on the hacienda. One grand recoups me for your retreat: best investment you ever made. Let's face it, you’re almost good to go, honey. Hahaha! And two grand left over is all yours to play with! This will take you far in Pancho La Paz. It’s your border upgrade, honey! God was good to ya. Just wait till you see your place!”

It was happening too fast for Helene to question it. A house, a dog, a friend and two thousand dollars!

“Wasn’t it your lucky day when you found me sittin’ at Jose's gorditas?”

It never occurred to Helene that it was Eva who found her.

It was the final day of the mindfulness retreat and Helene called Eva to get a ride to her new rental, as agreed. After four tries with no answer, Helene just assumed something came up. It was getting late so Lifecoach Ken called her a cab. At the mention of the address, the cabbie halted and mumbled something in Spanish.

“¡Que no está seguro!”

Helene nodded and said Si without knowing at all what he said. They arrived at a run down street with stray dogs running up and down. Eva’s hacienda was not what Helene expected on the outside but maybe that was intentional to trick thieves. With the door ajar, Helene ventured up the broken steps with her suitcases and peered in. This can’t be right! Wild dogs wandered everywhere. Two snarled at Zorro.

Helene’s jaw fell open when she realized this was a flophouse for homeless dogs. No paint, no furniture, dog shit everywhere, pee stains, warped floors, broken windows. She turned back to get help from the cabbie but he was long gone. It got worse when an angry man appeared and bolted up the steps.

“¿Dónde está la puta Valerie!?”

Enrique Martinez claimed to be the owner of this dump. He kept screaming Valerie, Valerie, Valerie, stomping around. Helene spiraled into a fresh panic attack and began to sob. That is when Enrique realized this poor gringa was a victim....like him. Now he tried to explain in his best English.

“Valerie. She rent for 6000 pesos a month. Valerie no me ha pagado! Three months no pay! Look what she do to my house?! Digame, where is Valerie?!”

Helene was inside a nightmare. She looked around for Zorro but he was long gone. She tried to breathe so she could speak.

“I don’t know Valerie! I only know Eva! I paid rent to Eva. Oh…my God. You mean Eva is...oh God! She…she took all my money! We have to find her! Please help me."

“Many gringos here to help you, lady. Vamanos. Sorry this happen to you, Senora. El problema es Valerie!”

Enrique shooed out the dogs and locked up the house. He took pity on Helene and gave her a ride to a cheap hostel near the central bus station. Bedbugs dominated a stained single bed so Helene spent that night curled up on top of her suitcases. At dawn when her phone beeped, she was already lying awake fighting panic.

The beep was a text from Eva, aka Valerie!

“Helene Newley: your three thousand will be kept for damages done: you lied to my landlord and put me at risk. Don’t try to pull any tenant’s rights nonsense here. You have none. This is Mexico. You will pay for pushing your privilege around in all kinds of ways. Eva.”

Helene's scabs were off. If there was any soul mending at the mindfulness retreat, it was wiped out. She found her only strength in a new motivation…rage. She made a vow.

I’ll get you, Valerie. No matter how long it takes. I’ll get you!

Five years passed and Helene had managed to shove the wounds of Valerie deep down somewhere in her churning gut where the other festering wounds lived: Hank, her mother, her first boyfriend. All untended. As for Valerie, she went off the radar as she was known to do.

But she always popped up when the coast was clear.

Helene became an official residdent of Pancho La Paz, an expat haven. She made new friends and reinvented herself. She had discovered contentment and purpose while running the online "Civil Neighbor" Group Chat - a famous resource for expats and visitors to Pancho La Paz. Helene volunteered at the Biblioteca Americana, helped local children and became president of the Rotary Club. A flood of Americans had since moved to town and Civil Neighbor Group Chat was buzzing with topics. One day, a newcomer in crisis named Dana Klein posted:

“Does anyone know a woman here named Ilsa? She rented me a place that didn’t exist. She took my money! I was so dumb to do it all online! I’m staying in the hostel by the bus station. Help?”

Helene knew exactly what to do.

The Valerie wound reared up from her gut and it was time. Besides, the police continued to ignore complaints about the elusive Gringa! Helene bravely launched The Problem with Valerie - a thread to "save naive tourists and newcomers” from the clutches of a con artist at large in Pancho La Paz.

The Valerie thread instantly filled up with horror stories akin to Helene’s, some worse. From shady propositions, to blackmail to downright stealing from the dead— all of Valerie’s games were described in sordid detail on the thread. The thread caught on like a tumbleweed to fire. A local group of “Valerie victims” found new life in trauma bonding over their victimization by this monster. Fingers went hogwild and Helene delighted in it. She was doing good, bringing people together—that’s what she told herself. That's what everyone told themselves. But the endgame was revenge.

On Friday, the inevitable happened. The digital dumping ground about Valerie turned into Helene's own hanging noose. Suddenly, The Problem with Valerie thread became a way bigger problem than...Valerie.

Helene called a live emergency meeting for Sunday at Jose’s Gordita in the furthest corner of the Mercado Ignacio Valdez. No more fingers, no more keyboards. The group must meet live— and with a lawyer present.

Helene found herself at the very first spot she landed five years ago in Pancho La Paz. It was the last Sunday in October and unsettled spirits were at work. Dia De Los Muertos is highly revered here and the dead are invited to join the party. The sugar skulls, ceramic skulls, painted paper skulls seemed to mock Helene from all corners as she dragged Jose’s little red table flush against a white table. Why can't you laugh it off?! Nothing was funny today. Helene felt paranoia escalating, when she looked at them, as though the skulls were laughing at her, rooting for her downfall. All she could do was ruminate about how she was going to rot in a Mexican prison.

Jose looked up from the chopping board to notice Helene moving his red table. ¿Qué está haciendo esa gringa loca con mis mesas ahora? He had a Sunday customer that loved the red table because “it didn’t wobble.” Let the gringos fight it out.

“Jose, puedes hacer los tacos por 12:05? Necesito la comida to be calda, you know how los gringos are!”

Helene liked to believe she was not a typical expat because she tried to speak Spanish everywhere, but it was truncated Spanglish. Jose nodded to appease her. Every vendor in the mercado knew Helene and her bad Spanish. But she was always nice.

“Jose, es posible que that you can time the tacos? I want them to be warm when they arrive, but los gringos are late.”

“They’re on Mexican time,” Jose offered.

Having succeeded in combining the red table with a white one, Helene exhaled with relief when she saw the group strolling toward her. She almost laughed at Roger and Don.

“Twinning today? Panama hats, beige shorts, Adidas.”

Then she noticed Cindy.

"Look Helene! We're the twins! Did you get your top at Rosario's too?"

Cindy and Helene did completely match in their her loose fitting beige linen and artisanal baubles. Beige linen was the dress code for expat gals here.

"No. Take a seat. I ordered tacos."

Helene gestured. Jose brought out the asada tacos and everyone said gracias. Starr arrived from another direction, dripping in hippie chic.

“Hey! Roger, I did it! I finally ate at Trece the other day. Brunch! Way more affordable," Starr singsonged as quartz crystals clinked about her neck.

Everyone nodded, mouths already full.

“Harry Hamlin was at the table next to us. He was eating with the owner. I swear that owner guy has the darkest energy."

“The owner of Trece?”

“Who's Harry Hamlin?”

Helene was now irked by the small talk. They showed no concern about the gravity of the situation.

“Did everyone even read my emails? Or did you just come for the free tacos?”

“Too many. Nope. What’s up?” Roger and Don grunted, chewing.

Helene lifted the stack of papers off the red table and held them up. With everyone eating they’d be less likely to interrupt.

“This stack contains all our public comments on The Problem with Valerie thread. For those who did not read my emails, we came under attack Friday by a Washington D.C. lawyer who claims we’ve committed slander and libel against Valerie Uniac and we could all go to prison.”

Off their indifferent chewing, Helene pulled off the top page and read ver batum, hoping this would hit a nerve.

“To quote the lawyer…‘You’ve been slanderous, libelous toward Miss Uniac and you are being reported to Mexican authorities as I write this. You ignorant Boomers apparently didn’t get the memo from your estranged grandchildren that nothing is private on the internet. And your collective skill set of entitlement, optimism, and exceptionalism multiplied by time on your hands has only gotten you into a hot legal Mexican mess. ”

Silence fell over the Last Supper table.

Don Henson got up to leave—his flight/fight response in full gear.

“I didn’t say anything about that broad! This is a washerwoman’s mess. I’m out. I’ll pay for my taco.”

“Don, you did, you sure did!” Helene rapidly rifled to the spot, reading to him,

“Page fourteen. Right here.” ‘That buxom hottie from Tampa who throws newcomer brunches? I thought her name was Ilsa. Leave her alone. She could be my future ex-wife. Or not. I think one of her breasts are out of proportion? Maybe from a botched boob job?”

Don stared up at the sky.

"It's something I would say....but memory doesn't serve."

Helene looked across the mercado to a welcome sight. Gabriel Juarez.

“Everyone meet Gabriel Juarez!”

“Buenas Tardes.”

She gestured to Gabriel’s seat at the head of the table and brought over the last taco.

Don reached out to Gabriel, who didn’t like the bone crushing feel of his handshake.

“Don Henson. Encantado. So why can’t the cops stop this Valerie monster?”

Helene watched Gabriel’s eyes land on Don’s dye job. Helene was embarrassed as if she was responsible for the fact that his “Just for Men: Auburn” intersected in a band against the incoming gray.

“Gabriel, help yourself to that taco. I can order more.”

But he had already swallowed that thumb size taco in one bite. After a few seconds, he quietly took the floor.

“Valerie is not protected under Mexican law, she is simply evasive. Your thread is also not protected. But you are not evasive. Valerie is clever. Your thread was not clever. However, until official charges are made against you, this is not what we should worry about. Your thread is problematic. For now, I will record your experience as victims. My office is an open space. There are ears there that I would prefer not hear you. Do I have your permission?””

Flies circled the taco remains as everyone looked around, suddenly reticent. Dana Klein raised her hand.

“You may record me but I have a terrible speaking voice. ”

Gabriel slid his phone closer to Dana.

“State your name and just tell your story. Please use Valerie Uniac and any alias this person used with you.”

Dana choked her victim story out while everyone listened.

“I rented a place from Valerie online before I moved here. She used the name Vee with me. She wanted a thousand in advance and I had it so I gave it to her. She dealt only with Western Union because she said she was having trouble with her Mexican bank…”

Helene couldn’t help noticing Dana’s teeth, how they needed attention. In fact, all the teeth at this table were in need of cleaning and polishing with the exception of Roger’s. They were fake, too white and too big for his mouth. When Roger laughed, it triggered Helene. They reminded her of those grimacing skulls all over town. Mocking her for taking life seriously. Helene knew the mocking skulls were right. She was a blip in the scheme of it all. And now she will be a blip in Mexican prison.

Helene had been down a mental rabbit hole during Dana’s account, but she knew Dana’s story like she knew her own— she was there to pick up the pieces. Valerie was all they ever talked about. Come to think, Valerie was all anyone talked about with Helene. Even in her Mindfulness class, when the topic would veer to Valerie or U.S. politics, the teacher had to stop class to warn them.

“What you focus on gets bigger.”

Helene double snapped the rubber band against her wrist and mentally re-entered the room where Angel was wrapping up with Dana and moving on to Starr Heart. Starr made laser eye contact with Helene. The look in Starr’s eyes made Helene afraid. As if she was responsible for what would happen next. Helene snapped her rubber band and nodded for Starr to trust. She knew the risk of teasing out Starr's trauma. It was worth it. So with forced control and quiet focus, Starr began her story.

“My name is Starr Heart. I am the sister of Generous Heart who lived in Pancho La Paz. I am not a Civil Neighbor member and I am not on a thread. My nightmare began in 2020 when Generous was murdered. I’m not here to talk about the details of her murder. This is the story of what happened after my sister’s murder. Valerie Uniac went by Ula then. My sister Generous Heart gave psychic readings, like me, and she also helped at a children’s home. My sister was a free spirit and willing to help everyone; hence she attracted parasites, vampires and vultures. She was killed by one of her mentally unstable clients who I discovered had a loose tie to Valerie. But that is for the law to work out. At the time Generous was killed, I was in New Mexico and I didn’t hear from anyone until one month after her death. When I arrived at her casita in Pancho La Paz, a woman answered the door, calling herself Ula. She told me she was the best friend of my sister and devastated by her murder. Ula had moved into the house to “guard it” from squatters and thieves. I believed her. She took over everything, including me in my grief and weakness. Valerie Uniak lived in my sister’s house, rent free for two years before selling off all her belongings. My sister had jewelry, textiles, art, hand crafted from all over the globe. It is gone. The rare black opal ring our mother left us, never off her finger, has been missing since the beginning. The original Lucienrega painting from a student of Diego Rivera. Gone. Valerie stole from my dead sister. Valerie cost me thousands in lawyer fees with nothing to show. But worse, her extreme emotional abuse when I was staying there with her led to my breakdown. I was told later that Valerie threw a fundraiser to “help the family.” I’m the only family. I never saw that money. What do you think happened? That is the problem with Valerie. She wins while everyone around her loses. That’s all, thank you.”

Her stoicism had shocked them all. For once, this group was without words. Angel even looked moved for a lawyer. Helene quietly suggested they take a five minute break.

“I’ll stay here and watch the table.”

It was 12:23pm and Mauricio Aldana waited by the Mercado entrance drinking a Dos Equis. Mauricio owned a wood carving shop up on Colegio so it was uncharacteristic of him to be standing there on a Sunday, and the offer of 5000 pesos was a deal he could not refuse. But the way he was commisssioned for the task made it a deal he dare not refuse. Mauricio knew that when They ask, you comply. And so he waited with his cerveza, as instructed by someone he'd never met. The cab was to pull up and the cabbie would scratch his head. Mauricio was to then take a small box from the cabbie and head into the mercado to Jose's. He must place it on the one red table. This was to happen inside five minutes. But the cab with the tiny box was presently stuck behind a HOTEL ROSADA shuttle that blocked Calle Correo as it let out six ancient turtles and twelve Louis Vuitton bags. The cabbie spit curses and dripped beads of fear. He too was called upon. His life might depend on this delivery and he knew it.

Mauricio was getting suspicious. The cabbie hadn’t shown up inside the five minute window. What could it mean? Would he be killed? He studied Jaqueta, one of the local roaming Chiclets gum sellers. Jaqueta was the most capricious in her group of ragtag kids dispatched over town to sell cheap candy and Chiclets to tourists. The kids were to stay dirty to get sympathy from guilty gringos over their plight. Jaqueta also knew how to pick a pocket or two. The child looked idle and bored so Mauricio called her over and gave her instructions and 100 Pesos. Her life isn't good anyway he thought. And maybe they wouldn't kill a child this time. She instantly took the assignment, swapping the potentially deadly spot at the mouth of the Mercado with Mauricio.

Helene sat guarding the Last Supper table, waiting for them to return with her jugo verde. It was then she spotted Richard Bernstein in that damn faded searsucker blazer and signature month old ponytail. God no. Not him, not now.

Richard was a chronic dissenter on Civil Neighbor and had recently made it his mission to shame them all about the Problem With Valerie. His last comment was the straw that got Helene so upset, she booted him.

“Valerie is no different than any of you, just smarter. Is this The Crucible? The Scarlet Letter? I vote that no negative gossip be allowed on Civil Neighbor. According to Mexican law, gossiping in this open manner is illegal and could get you people in a lot of trouble.”

Richard moved up the short line for his Sunday gorditas. Helene kept her head turned away but a side eye on Richard. He was searching for something. And then he spotted it.

“Why do you need two tables? You're sitting here alone.”

“Hello, Richard,” She feigned an even tone.

“I patronize Jose’s every Sunday and I sit on that red table. It’s the only one that doesn’t wobble. Jose knows it, everyone knows it. It’s my table.”

“Well today, it’s ours.” Helene snaps the rubber band.

Richard stood figuring out his next move while trying to regulate the rage shooting about his body.

“Then I’ll just sit here.”

“This is a private meeting, Richard.”

Richard narrowed his eyes at Gabriel.

“Eres un detectivo, Senior? Is this about The Problem With Valerie? For what it’s worth, your problem is about to backfire. You created an actionable defamation tort against Valerie in México and the US.”

Roger, Don, Starr and Cindy returned to the Last supper table holding a rainbow assortment of licuados. Richard had launched into a loud sermon, attracting attention to the Last Supper Table.

“The woman you provincial puritans want to denigrate is kind and generous! She shares copious knowledge of the area to newcomers, she helps the city’s economy by bringing even more tourists. Her welcome outreach towards newcomers here is a far cry from anything that would occur to you bitter withered balloons. Defamation and tortious interference is taken seriously in Mexico. And in case you’re interested, Helene, I’ll be speaking tomorrow at the biblioteca on the cross-cultural mixture of Judeo-Christian spirituality with the indigenous people of Mesoamerica. At three. Try it. Further your scant education.”

Bitter withered balloons? Helene felt disgusted. She knew deep down that terrible man spoke the truth. His brutal words teased out buried shame—that she would be so stupid as to trust a shark like Valerie. Now she’d become the leader of an angry mob. Helene realized she didn’t like herself for creating this micro cartel of bitter withered balloons, her acting as self-appointed Jefe. Helene became quiet where the rest took over the battle for the red table.

"Richard, you're not in this!"

"Entitled asshole…get another table!"

"We’re trying to work!"

Just then, a dapper forty year old man in an Armani suit strolled directly over to the Last Supper table. He was after one thing. He raised his voice over the yelling.

“Give me that red table. Now.”

All of them turned in shock, sizing him up.

“Who are you?”

“I know you! You own Trece! Ian Baden Schaefer. We had great salmon last night” Starr's memory was fresh. She'd gawked over the controversial restaurant owner the night before, as he visited with Harry Hamlin.

“Thank you. I need this table.”

Richard flung his body over the red table.

“If I don’t get this table, no millionaire is getting it.”

Ian Baden Schaefer squatted low and with all the force he could and reached to yank the legs of the red table out from under Richard. It was then, Helene suddenly found her voice and cried:

“We need to stop! We were wrong, the thread was wrong. I was wrong! I want nothing more to do with Valerie! I’m not a victim! I’m not Hank’s victim, I’m not my mother’s victim! Let me go to jail! I don't care anymore!"

Now ten feet from the chaos, Jaqueta, the roaming Chiclets girl appeared holding a tiny cardboard box. She knew the red table, but couldn’t place it at first...until she saw multiple gringos fighting around it.

Jaqueta marched to the chaos and plopped the small box on top of Richard's searsuckered back that was covering the table's surface like a tablecloth. Richard lifted himself off the table causing the box to roll off his back.

When the box hit the ground, a woman’s finger rolled out onto the cobblestones. Everyone screamed.

“Oh my God! My mother’s black opal ring!” Starr rasped.

Indeed, deliberately left on the finger was a black opal ring.

“Generous wore it all the time!"

"And so how did it end up on this finger?” Gabriel asked, turning on his recorder.

“Valerie. That's her robin's egg blue nail polish! Always chipped," Helene could barely get the words out.

"That's Valerie's finger!”

While they all stared at the finger, Ian Baden Schaefer knelt down and picked up the box. He had been under strict orders to come to the red table at 12:25 and wait for instructions. He knew there should be a note in that box and there was—covered in blood, stuck to one of the sides. He read with Gabriel standing over him, reading along.

“The woman talked. We know. Don't mistakenly ignore our seriousness. You will find her enclosed finger as our promise to carry out the warning from our previous letter. Your reply must include the payment of $1 million or the woman will suffer our second harmful act and your secret will be known to the world. Action will be taken by 1 November at 11am.”

Ian Baden Schaefer was not having a good day.

And clearly, neither was Valerie.

Meanwhile, Helene was having an important epiphany. She knew at once, she hadn't actually gotten over any of her wounds. She saw clearly now, she had been living a lie. She was no do gooder. She knew her nature was made of the same ingredients as Valerie but she'd just cloaked herself with teflon and a smile and secretly focused her reason for living on revenge. someone had to pay for Hank, her mother, her first boyfriend. And that person is Valerie.

Ian Baden Schaefer raced out of the Mercado, leaving them all to ponder the finger.

“How will I get my mother’s ring off?" mused Starr, like a child.

"I called the police. You'll get your mother's ring." Gabriel patted her shoulder.

“I never understood why she let herself go around with chipped nail polish.” Starr said in a childlike tone, “She was flawless otherwise.”

Helene took Starr’s hand.

“...We all have our blind spots."

And together, they all waited for the police while Jaquetta watched those crazy people from the fruit vendor's booth, dreaming of how she would spend today's hard earned pesos.

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