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pulsed. The pitchy squeal in her head crescendoed.
    â€œJosef, would you excuse me.” She pushed her chair back and stood.
    â€œIs everything all right?”
    â€œPlease, don’t let me interrupt. I need a minute to …”
    â€œOh.” Josef nodded. “The WC is down the hall, to the right. Don’t get lost or we’ll have to send the Gestapo to find you.” He laughed.
    Elsie gulped and forced a feeble smile. She walked leisurely through the glittering banquet hall but quickened her pace alone in the shadowed corridor, past the sign marked
Toilette
until she reached the double doors leading to the back alley.

ELSIE’S GERMAN BAKERY
2032 TRAWOOD DRIVE
EL PASO, TEXAS
NOVEMBER 5, 2007
    R eba’s cell phone buzzed. “Excuse me.” She read the text message: PROCESSIN VAN OF ILLEGALS. B HOME LATE . She sighed and tossed the phone back into her purse.
    â€œProblem?” asked Jane.
    â€œNo, just more Rudy’s Bar-B-Q takeout for me. I’m a regular.”
    â€œI hear that, honey.” Jane tapped her fingers on the table. “Boyfriend?”
    â€œNot exactly.” Reba shuffled the items in her handbag, then zipped it.
    â€œOh, come on. It’s just us girls.” Jane made like she was locking her mouth with a key.
    Reba paused. Again, Jane was toeing—no,
pushing
the line that separated the journalist from the subject. It wasn’t professional to talk about her relationships. The job was to get interviewees to talk about theirs; then she’d write it up and the magazine printed it a thousand times over for public consumption. She was known for her feature profiles. She could wheedle out intimate stories from just about anybody her editor put in front of her; but
her
life was private, and she meant to keep it that way. She’d just met this woman. Jane was a total stranger. No, completely inappropriate.
    But there was something about her, a calm intensity, that gave the illusion—correct or not—of trustworthiness. And the fact was, Reba didn’t have many friends in the El Paso. She didn’t trust most people. She’d beenjaded by far too many who said one thing but did another. Lied, in essence. Not that she could point a finger. She lied too, every day, big and small, even to herself. She told herself she didn’t need companionship. She was independent, self-sufficient, and free. Riki had been the only one she dared trust here, and only to a limited extent. But lately, even things with him were going sour. She felt a budding loneliness, and with it came the familiar emptiness that once threatened to swallow her whole. She missed her older sister, Deedee, and her momma, too. Family. The very people she’d traveled thousands of miles to leave behind.
    On quiet El Paso nights when Riki was working late, the loneliness would sometimes consume her like it did in her childhood, and she’d pour a glass of wine, open the kitchen window, and let the desert breeze kick up the linen curtains. It made her think of her last August Sunday in Richmond. Deedee had come over with two bottles of Château Morrisette. They’d drunk barefoot on the fresh-cut lawn, green clippings stuck to their toes. By the second cork pop, wine wasn’t the only thing being poured into the night. Tipsy on illusive dreams, they forgot all their girlhood tears, talking of quixotic futures until even the lightning bugs turned off their lights; and for once, they understood why their daddy drank bourbon like lemonade. It was nice to pretend the world was wonderful—to gulp away the fears, hush the memories, let your guard down and simply be content, if only for a few hours.
    Reba rubbed the twitch in her forehead. “He’s my fiancé,” she relented.
    â€œReally!” Jane leaned back in her chair. “Where’s the ring?”
    Reba reached for the chain at her neck and pulled the suspended solitaire from beneath