It feels as though the Fanns might never leave the flat today, and this is a problem for Donita because something is happening across the street. Two white catering vans have come down East Coast Road and turned onto the street leading to the Hongs’ residence. Earlier this morning, Donita also saw a bright yellow tent being pitched outside their house. Today is one of her working Sundays, so if the Fanns are planning on staying in, she’ll need a good excuse to go outside to get a closer look.
What do you think is going on? she asked on her group chat with Cora and Angel after sending them a blurry picture taken from her window.
Funeral wake, Angel replied. They are setting up for it. It will be an outdoor thing, probably a few days.
Donita: Are their funerals open to the public?
Angel: Nobody notices uninvited guests if it’s a big funeral.
Judging from the size of the equipment being unloaded from the trucks outside the residence, they are setting up for a major event. Crowds of viewers will pack the street, and workers will be scurrying around to keep them fed. Who will notice Donita casually slipping in? If only Mr. and Mrs. Fann would quit bickering in the living room and just leave for church already. Last night, after the latest news article was posted, she couldn’t get the phrase execution by hanging out of her head. To help Flor, she needs to get closer to the house, but she can’t do it alone. Keeping an eye on the Hong residence as it pulses with activity, Donita sends Angel a direct message. Want to come here?
She hears Mrs. Fann calling her name.
Angel: Already on my way ;)
Donita tosses the phone onto her bed and hurries to the hallway just as Mrs. Fann bellows her name again. “How many times must I call you?” Mrs. Fann asks.
“Sorry, ma’am,” says Donita.
“There is a bag of old clothes for the karang guni man to collect. Fold them neatly before putting them outside.” Mrs. Fann glances at her watch. “You ready or not?” she calls to Mr. Fann, who is still in his study.
After a long pause, Mr. Fann replies, “Go ahead without me.”
Mrs. Fann takes in a breath so deep, it feels as if the pressure of the atmosphere is changing. She picks up her purse and marches out of the flat.
Donita crouches to sort through the faded, musty-smelling clothes for donation. She can hear Mr. Fann shuffling around the way he does in the middle of the night when he can’t sleep. This morning, she heard Mrs. Fann telling him, “Depression is a problem of the spirit, just like Weston’s weakness. Pastor Ong says he’ll talk to you.”
Mr. Fann comes out of the study just as Donita is holding up a blue T-shirt with the words st. lawrence secondary school track and field printed in white letters across the back. “Mrs. Fann told you to get rid of these?”
Donita nods.
“I’ll keep that one,” he says. It looks much too small for him, but Donita hands it over. Could that T-shirt have belonged to Weston? Mr. Fann clutches it tightly in both hands.
“Sir?” She should ask if he wants to look through the box for any more clothes. Those words clog her throat; she doesn’t know how to talk to Mr. Fann.
“Do you need something?” Mr. Fann asks. There is something in his voice, a type of softness, that Donita seizes on.
“Uhh . . . I need to go out,” she says. What is the one excuse that guarantees a man will ask a woman no further questions? “Period, sir. Very heavy flow. Need extra sanitary pads.”
“Okay.” Mr. Fann’s permission comes so easily that Donita instantly regrets offering such personal details. She could probably have said, “Female problems,” and he would have understood, but maybe it’s best to keep him uncomfortable so he won’t ask any questions.
On her way out the door, Donita sees a message from Angel: On the 36 bus, just passed Parkway Parade. Perfect, she’s only five minutes away.
Donita arrives on East Coast Road just as the neon-green bus is pulling up. She sees Angel tapping her fare card and then gesturing urgently at somebody behind her. Donita squints—through the tinted doors, she recognizes Cora. They both step onto the kerb. Angel flashes Donita a grin, and Cora makes a visor of her hands to shield her eyes from the sun’s angry glare.
“This is the wrong stop,” Cora says. “I thought we were going to the airport?”
“Come along, Cora,” Angel says, briskly falling into step with Donita.
“You told her you were taking her to the airport?” Donita whispers.
“I couldn’t tell her we were going to a murder house, could I?”
“Why the airport, though?”
Behind them, Cora is calling out, “Do we need to change buses?”
“She hasn’t been to Jewel yet. She didn’t believe there was a rain forest and a waterfall in the middle of the airport.”
Donita wouldn’t have believed it either. The first time she saw a video of the water gushing through that enormous glass-domed roof, she thought she was witnessing a grand flood. Then she saw the shuttle trains weaving through the thicket of tropical trees, and the camera panned over the little balcony lookouts and restaurants nestled in an indoor forest. Behind them were the winking storefront banners for handbag boutiques and gadget stores.
They are turning down the road when Cora calls for them to stop. “Tell me what’s going on right now,” Cora commands. “Where are we—” Midsentence, she appears to realize where Angel and Donita are headed.
“I don’t understand why you had to bring her,” Donita mutters to Angel as they turn to face Cora.
“She will be helpful,” Angel whispers back. To Cora, she says, “Donita saw Flordeliza that evening. We know these homes better than most people do. Maybe there’s something that the police missed when they were investigating.”
“Then why not tell the police?” Cora asks.
“Do you remember the way they spoke to us the other day? They probably have my name on record. If I tell them I knew Flordeliza, they might pin somebody else’s murder on me,” Donita says.
“Shh,” Angel says, even though they’ve been speaking in Tagalog. Still, the word for “murder” strikes the air like a match.
“This isn’t right,” Cora says. “I’m going home. I’m not getting involved. I’ll take a walk on the beach.”
“Flordeliza is innocent,” Donita insists. “Can you live with yourself knowing that an innocent person was executed?”
Those words do something to Cora. Donita sees it in the way her eyes grow cloudy, her mind retreating into another place. It’s like the expression that overtook Mr. Fann’s face earlier when he saw Donita holding that T-shirt.
“We can have a look from across the road,” Cora says finally. “I’m not going anywhere near the house.”
“Okay,” Donita and Angel say in unison. They briskly make their way towards the Hong residence, a double-story terrace house with wide windows and a red-tiled roof. The iron gates are spread open like wings, and white plastic chairs have been set up in the driveway. Metal scaffolding extends across the outside area and forms the outline of a tent.
There is nothing to see from out here, but in her mind, Donita begins to search for clues in Flordeliza’s daily path. The walk to the wet market; the cleaning of each room of the house; the dinner preparations.
Upstairs, the windows are closed and the shades are drawn. Donita edges along the pavement, obeying Cora’s instructions to observe the house only from a distance. The main door is propped open and there is a clear line of sight into the living room and kitchen. She pictures Flordeliza returning home that Sunday after Donita saw her. Was the house empty and strangely silent? Did she know right away that something was off?
“This wake is going to be a big affair,” Angel observes as two men make their way onto the property carrying a long wooden table. “They will probably cremate her body privately, but this ceremony will be for everybody to attend.”
The wreaths have already started piling up, trails of satin ribbon and stiff, bulky hoops of flowers. Donita watches one of the workers at the top of a ladder adjusting the tarp. The thick silver bangle on his wrist looks like the one Sanjeev wears for religious reasons. Yesterday, when she was trying to piece together the timeline of Carolyn Hong’s murder and her encounter with Flordeliza, she messaged Sanjeev: On Sunday, the place we went to, what is it called? He replied: Baby, we were in heaven! Not the answer she was looking for, but it did make her giggle.
“Do they have surveillance cameras?” Cora asks.
“If they had caught somebody else on camera, Flordeliza wouldn’t be a suspect,” Angel points out. “If they had camera footage, Flordeliza would be able to prove she was out of the house when the murder happened.”
There is a twitch in Donita’s feet, and she notices Angel shifting her weight as well. The hot pavement is beginning to burn through the worn soles of Donita’s rubber sandals, but it’s impatience too, because there isn’t much time before she is due home. “We’d have better chances of seeing what’s inside if we went closer to the house,” Donita suggests.
“She’s right, Cora,” Angel says. “We look more suspicious just standing here like this.”
Cora sighs, relenting, as Donita leads them across the road. The edges of the driveway are piled with workers’ equipment—folded tables, ladders resting on their sides, thick spools of black cables. A portable toilet for workers has been set up in the garden, even though, just inside the gaping-open main door of the house a few feet away, there is a bathroom. Donita knows this because she sees a teenager coming out, wiping her hands on her jeans. In a flash, she crosses the living room and disappears from view.
“The daughter?” Angel asks.
Donita nods. Elise Hong, the girl whose devastating cries for her mother parted the crowd that Sunday evening. From here, Donita notices an alleyway hugging the side of the house. It leads to a paved courtyard out back where laundry lines hang between two poles, and three mountain bikes are slumped against the wall. She glances at Cora. “I guess there’s nothing to see here,” she says, although she is eyeing the back door. It has been left open for the caterers, whose stoves are connected to the gas lines.
“Told you,” Cora says. “Let’s just go to Jewel now, please.”
“Fine.” Donita sighs. “There’s a shortcut to the bus stop this way.”
Cora and Angel follow her. It’s true that cutting through the access lane between the houses will shave a minute or two off their journey to the bus stop on the main road, so they don’t sense Donita’s plans until she makes a sharp left turn into the alley that leads to the Hong house’s backyard.
Behind Donita, Angel lets out a noise of protest, but she and Cora follow Donita as she hurries down the alley to the house. Cora hisses, “Stop it, this is crazy.” She reaches out to tug Donita’s hand, and in the excitement of entering the house, Donita grabs Cora’s wrist and pulls her inside; Angel follows behind them.
They are frozen for a moment. The air here is cooler and tinged with the lemony scent of dish detergent. Copper frying pans hang from a row of hooks above their heads. Cora makes a move to run back out, but Donita and Angel tumble past her, accidentally pushing her farther in, and then suddenly they are scattering frantically around a marble island. They scan the kitchen to take in everything they can. Here is a faintly humming stainless-steel fridge and a floating shelf of cookbooks. Here is a bowl teeming with kiwis and overripe bananas; a single glass bowl with a dessert spoon is lying in the sink. What did the killer touch? What did he see?
Finally, Cora breaks past them and makes for the back door. Donita registers movement as a shadow approaches the open kitchen door; they all freeze with fear. Thankfully, somebody in the hallway calls out and the shadow retreats. Angel’s hands, palms out, are hovering in a limp version of the surrender position, just to let everybody know that she is not touching anything. The women are completely silent until the sole of Cora’s sandal squeaks against the floor; she lurches forward and falls to her knees.
In that same moment, they hear heavy footsteps descending from above. “Go, go, go,” Angel whispers urgently, and they scramble out through the door. Donita feels her heart leap into her throat. Laughter, the hysterical kind overcharged by sheer fear, begins bubbling up from her stomach as soon as she is outside. She is stumbling across the courtyard when Angel grabs her arm. “Cora,” she whispers. Her eyes are wide and full of terror.
Cora is still inside the kitchen, slowly pushing herself to standing, when those feet become visible on the stairs. Donita returns to the doorway to beckon her urgently, but she is a split second too late—if Cora is seen racing out of the house, she will look more suspicious. Donita and Angel crouch by the door, their bodies flat against the brick exterior of the house. Cora freezes. They all watch as the stairs reveal the body like an image gradually downloading: legs in a pair of black trousers, then a grey polo shirt, then a face that Donita has seen only in that headshot online. Peter Hong.
They have left Cora in the house with a murderer.
The thought brings a chill to Donita’s bones. Seeing that Mr. Hong is busy tapping on his phone, she waves to get Cora’s attention, to let her know she should escape now. But for some reason, Cora goes deeper into the kitchen.
“What is she doing?” Angel asks.
Donita shakes her head. This is very bad. They should run. But she cannot leave Cora there, even though her whole body is burning for an easy escape. Angel grips her arm, and Donita feels the same thoughts charging through her. They must stand by their friend.
Cora turns her back on them but stays within view. She picks up a washcloth near the sink and begins wiping the counter vigorously. The movement catches Mr. Hong’s attention. He snaps his head up and stares at Cora.
“Good afternoon, sir!” Cora chirps. The enthusiasm and pitch of her voice are new to Donita, who presses closer to the open door to see what is happening.
Mr. Hong’s stare is unnerving. Remember this, Donita thinks as she trains her eyes on the scene. If he hurts Cora in any way, Donita and Angel will be witnesses, but they must know all the specifics or the police won’t believe them. Donita takes in the details of the kitchen: The little black flecks on the marble flooring, each type of fruit in the bowl on the counter. On the side of the fridge, a clip magnet has slid down from the weight of the papers fastened to it.
“Who are you?” Mr. Hong asks.
Cora is still grinning and swiping the countertops with her washcloth when she says, “Lucy Marie Gonzalez, sir, from Lucky Lucy’s Cleaning Agency.”
Donita feels Angel take in a sharp breath.
“Excuse me?” Mr. Hong asks. “What are you doing here?”
“Sir, you booked me to do the cleaning?” Cora says. Her eyes are round like a doll’s.
“I did not book you.”
Cora’s face crumples from confusion. “Oh, you booked Rainy, then? Rainy sometimes does the Sunday shifts.”
Through gritted teeth, Mr. Hong says, “I did not book anybody.”
What is she doing? Donita wonders. She glances at Angel, who looks just as perplexed.
Cora has stopped wiping the table, and she’s reaching into her pocket for her phone. “Sir, maybe there has been a mix-up,” she says. Before looking at her phone, she squints at Mr. Hong. “This is eighty-six Oldham Drive, yes?”
“No,” Mr. Hong says. “This is Oldham Walk. I don’t know where Oldham Drive is.”
“Ay!” Cora cries. “I’m so stupid, sir. I go to the wrong house!” In a frenzy, she picks up the washcloth and brings it to the sink. “I must call the ma’am and explain, ay-ay-ay-ay! I’m so sorry, sir.”
Mr. Hong stares at Cora as she makes a play of collecting some things in order to depart. The phone is pressed to her ear and she’s grovelling to nobody at the other end. Donita and Angel jump to their feet and race up the alley. Both are breathless and giggling as they turn the corner onto the access lane. Angel says, “You see? That is why we need Cora.”
“I didn’t recognize her,” Donita says, gasping. She takes in a gulp of air.
When Cora comes around the corner, the sunlight is illuminating her hair and she looks as if she is on fire. “I’m going to kill you both,” she growls. Angel gives Cora a hug.
“Did you see anything?” Donita asks.
“She was too focused on pretending to be the cleaner to take on any more spy work,” Angel says, laughing. “Isn’t that right, Cora? You were wiping that counter so hard, I thought Mr. Hong was going to give you a job in the end.”
“I don’t think a job was what he was planning on giving me,” Cora says. “I’m lucky I got out of there.”
They are walking through the park that leads to the main road when Angel speaks up. “When I was in the kitchen, I noticed a few pictures of Flordeliza—I recognized her from the news reports. There was a mug from Universal Studios with a photograph of Flordeliza and the Hong girl on a roller coaster.”
So? Donita almost says, and Angel must see it in her expression because she adds, “I just don’t think a maid who is so included in the family would suddenly betray them like that.”
Cora bites her lip and doesn’t say anything for a moment. “It’s hard to know,” she says. Donita and Angel exchange a look. “People are capable of anything when they’re desperate.”
“You think Flordeliza was really trying to get into the safe to steal something?” Angel asks.
“Not steal. I don’t think she had money problems.”
“She didn’t,” Donita says. “She regularly sent money home to her family.”
“And she used a premium balikbayan service too,” Cora says. “Balik Express. I saw a roll of their complimentary packing tape on the kitchen counter.”
“Did her employers keep her passport?” Angel asks. “They usually keep those in a safe. Maybe she was just trying to get to it, and she and her ma’am got into a fight.”
“But I saw her,” Donita says, exasperated that her friends are ignoring this detail. “I saw her, I know I did.” What will it take for everybody to believe her? Even Sanjeev, when she repeated her question about where exactly they had been that Sunday, replied, “But are you sure you saw her? It was raining so heavily. Could have been anyone.”
Angel and Cora exchange a look. Donita sees that Cora is still panting slightly from the run, and the adrenaline, no doubt, and Angel’s cheeks are flushed.
“Donita, what we did was really dangerous,” Angel says. “I know she’s your friend, but—”
“But what?” Donita snaps. “I should just wait for them to execute her for murder? Why did you come here if you didn’t want to find out the truth?”
“I was curious,” Angel says. She glances back at the house. “But that man looks dangerous. I don’t want to get mixed up with him.”
“You’re probably too young to remember that something similar happened to a Pinoy woman here almost twenty years ago,” Cora says.
“Marisol Concepcion?” Donita asks. “Of course I remember.” But remember is not the right word. The spectre of Marisol Concepcion haunted every Philippine family with a daughter or wife working overseas. A movie about her life had screened at the outdoor cinema in Pasuquin a few years after she was executed, and some people who watched it declared they would never go to Singapore. Over time, those sentiments faded, but nobody forgot a story like that, especially not the women.
“The police here said Marisol strangled her employer, but there were experts in the Philippines who said that somebody with her small frame couldn’t possibly have overpowered that woman,” Angel says. “The media back home also reported that the employer was having an affair, which the news barely mentioned here. It could have been the woman’s jealous husband or lover. Right, Cora?”
“What Angel is saying is that if you investigate, Donita, you could get yourself into serious trouble,” says Cora. “What if you found some evidence in the house, but the police didn’t believe you? The husband could come after you. You live nearby.”
All Donita hears is the word evidence. “I’m not afraid of anyone,” she says to Angel and Cora, and before they can argue, she turns around and heads straight back up the path. The wind is rushing in her ears but she imagines Cora and Angel are calling for her. By the time she reaches the back gate, her hands have stopped shaking. She steps over the threshold, thinking only of Flordeliza.
The backyard of the Hong residence is a cluttered plot of overgrown weeds and discarded items, like a rusted barbecue grill and some cracked clay pots. The small window with iron bars—probably the maid's room—faces this area, but it’s too high to see into. Donita’s gaze lands on the cinder blocks holding up the mini–slide set that Elise Hong clearly outgrew a long time ago. Donita tugs at one block but it barely budges. She notices something black and leathery curling around the corner of the slide, and she recoils quickly. A snake? She squints, peers closely, and sees the gleaming curve of a buckle. It’s a bag. A leather backpack, exactly like the one Flordeliza was wearing that day.
There are voices approaching—workers speaking in a language Donita doesn’t understand. Donita ducks, crawls towards the slide, and tucks herself under it and out of sight. She pops open the bag’s buckle and begins rifling through its contents: a tube of lipstick, a mirror, and a small black compact. There is also a fistful of cash: two fifty-dollar bills and a few loose notes crumpled like old tissues at the bottom of the bag. Donita reaches into her pocket for her phone to take a picture, but when she hears a girl’s voice, she hurries to pack everything back into the bag and place it under the slide. She stays crouched there, her heart pounding in her ears.
“It’s just so hard.”
Donita takes a cautious peek and sees Elise Hong talking on her phone. “The funeral, all these people. I can’t believe it.” She bites her lower lip as a stream of tears pours down her face. Donita wishes she could comfort this girl. She was too young to mourn her parents when they left, but when she was a teenager, she found places to hide and cry for the mother she never knew.
“It would be easier if you were here,” Elise continues, and then she nods quickly. “I know, I know, but I’m just saying, I wish you were around.” Another pause as she listens to the person on the line. She takes a deep, shaky breath and exhales loudly. “Like that?” she asks. “It helps a little bit, but the middle of the night is hardest for me. I feel so scared.” Then she lowers her head and begins to whisper. Donita leans out as far as she can without being seen. She scans the backyard. Would it be possible, if Elise keeps her head down, for Donita to belly-crawl her way to that slouching sack of soil and old tiles? They are piled high enough to hide Donita better than this slide, and she’ll be able to eavesdrop.
Suddenly, Elise stops and hangs up without a goodbye. Around the corner, a shadow darkens the concrete pathway.
“Elise! What are you doing out here? Who were you talking to?” a deep voice demands. It is Peter Hong. Donita squeezes back into the small space behind the slide, hoping that they don’t make their way over here.
“I was just checking my messages,” Elise replies. Both of their shadows disappear; they are heading towards the front door. Donita eyes another hiding spot behind the rusty barbecue grill. As the voices move farther away, she darts to take cover there, closer to the Hongs.
“Messages from who?” Mr. Hong is asking.
Elise replies but Donita cannot make out her exact words. What she does catch is the pitch of the girl’s voice getting higher with her protestations.
“I told you, don’t talk to anybody,” Mr. Hong says. His voice booms with authority. “Any calls people want to make, any condolences they want to give, they can do it through me. Understand?”
Donita doesn’t hear anything. She pictures Elise nodding. Mr. Hong says, “Give me your phone.” Elise’s protests are thin. “I said give me your phone,” her father says.
The menacing tone in his voice, the way his daughter abruptly stops whining, frightens Donita. She waits until their shadows recede completely before she pokes her head out from behind the barbecue grill to make sure the coast is clear. Then she scrambles out of the back gate. Racing towards the canal path, Donita sees Cora and Angel boarding the 36 bus towards Jewel. They can continue their day as if nothing happened. The white suds of a gathering wave rise and crash against the shore as Donita reaches Block One. She has to stop herself from racing across the bridge and leaping into the sea, leaving the Hong residence even farther behind.