Margot finished what was left in her mug, chewing the crystals of sugar that hadn’t yet dissolved.

Wearing a white undershirt and black jeans, Miguel emerged from the bathroom with a hand towel, drying his wet hair. She realized then that she hadn’t taken a shower herself in days, not even after she had walked on the beach and submerged herself in the ice-cold water. She placed the kettle on the stove top now to brew Miguel a cup of coffee, too. The electric coil glowed orange, deepening to red.

Miguel grabbed a razor from his overnight bag and closed the bathroom door. Her phone rang.

“Oh, hi,” Officer Choi said. She could hear background noise of him rummaging through papers, folders. “Hope it’s not too early? I’ve got some stuff for you.”

“Is it . . . good?”

“Well, couple things,” he said. “I finally reached the landlord. I spoke to him yesterday afternoon.”

“Oh, great.”

“Unfortunately, he said he didn’t remember anything odd about the weekend that your mother died. He said that he had no idea what you were talking about, the yelling, your mother’s voice—”

“What?”

“He said it was just like any other weekend. Your mother had been a quiet tenant.”

“I know I’m not imagining what he said.”

“So I tried knocking on some of the doors of your neighbors.”

“And?” She paced back and forth in the kitchen.

“Only one of them answered. And she said she wasn’t home at all over the weekend. She’s lived in the building for a few years and your mother has always been very quiet.”

“God, I can’t believe this,” she said to herself. “I swear, he told me . . . We were in the parking lot, the garage. I know what he said. I have no idea why he wouldn’t tell you . . .”

But she remembered the landlord’s words after she confronted him about not talking to the police: What for? I was tired and it could’ve been anyone. I don’t need them snooping around here. Do you? Do you think the neighbors like that? What do you think the police are going to do for you? Do you think they care about your mother?

“Damn it. I’ll have to talk to him again,” she said. “It’s bullshit.”

“I’m not sure what else we can do, Margot.”

“There had to have been someone else around.” She gritted her teeth. Her eyes darted toward the electric coil—red and hot. She could hear the bubbling inside of the kettle now.

“I looked into the obituary, too.”

“You did?” she said, somewhat relieved.

“Your mother’s boyfriend, Kim Chang-hee, was a pretty big deal in the Valley. Rich. Donated a lot to the church. He had this small supermarket chain, Super San. Ever heard of it?”

“No,” she said, leaning on the edge of the counter next to the stove. “I guess I just don’t know the Valley.”

“Wife. No kids.” He paused. “Pancreatic cancer. He died in October.”

“I see.” Should she tell him that she saw a resemblance between herself and Mr. Kim? No. It was silly wishful thinking.

“His widow lives in Calabasas. They have a home there.”

She knew. The tour operator had given her the address.

“I don’t really see a connection to your mother or her death,” he said. “You found this obituary at home without any explanation?”

“Yes, I . . . I found it in a drawer that I was going through.”

“I mean—”

“What was her name? The widow’s name?”

“Mary Kim.”

“Do you have a phone number?”

“I really don’t think we should go down this route.”

“What do you mean?”

She could hear men’s voices in the background. “Your mother.” Officer Choi lowered his voice. “She had a lover. He died. And then—later, she died as well.” He paused. “It’s terrible and sad, but there isn’t a point in hurting anyone else, right? I mean, none of this information will bring your mom back.”

“Hurting anyone else?”

“The widow. Mr. Kim’s wife. Why bring her into this? She might not even know about the affair.”

“But what if she does?”

“How are we going to figure that out? Ask her? Why would we be asking questions about your mother? We’d have to tell her.” He sighed. “I don’t really see what else I can do here, Margot. As far as your mother’s death goes—which was terrible, I’m sorry—it’s an open-and-shut case. It was an accident, and there’s not much more I can—”

She hung up the phone. The kettle screamed.

She turned off the burner as Miguel reemerged from the bathroom, freshly shaven, clean and minty, and strolled into the kitchen.

“Did you hear any of that?” Margot asked, pouring the hot water into the French press.

“Yeah, I did.” He shook his head. “So the landlord is now just acting like he didn’t hear anything. Of course.”

After stirring the grounds in the water, she said, “I’m gonna talk to him. I’ll try this afternoon.”

“The landlord?” Miguel leaned on the kitchen counter. “Do you want me to go with you? Do you feel safe?”

“I’ll be okay, I think.” She pressed the grounds down and poured the coffee into a mug. “You have errands to run. I’ll try him today, and we can still go to Calabasas this week, right?”

“Sure, how about tomorrow? Or Friday?”

“Sounds good,” she said. “I can’t believe the landlord lied. This is so frustrating.”

“Maybe you should go down there now? I’ll go with you. Or do you have his number?”

“Yeah, I do.” She grabbed her phone again. “I should, or actually—it’s here on the fridge, I think.” Her mother had taped up a piece of paper with the phone numbers of important people—Margot, the landlord, her church, Alma, the manager of the swap meet—in case of an emergency.

She dialed. When the answering machine picked up with a generic recording, she didn’t bother to leave a message. She had a feeling that he would be avoiding her now.

“Maybe take a break?” Miguel said. “I have some appointments at apartments today. How about we do that and then go out to eat something? We could drive around Burbank for a bit, get away from this place.”

She nodded and said, “I’m just so fed up with everything right now.”

“Too bad hot Officer Choi turned out to be such a bummer.”

“Predictable,” she said. “All of this and that landlord are so fucking predictable.”

“Why not surprise them?” He sipped his coffee. “I think we should surprise them, don’t you think?”

“What do you mean?” she asked.

“We roll up our sleeves and figure this shit out on our own. You don’t need him for anything else, right? Delete him.”

He was right. She didn’t need Officer Choi or the landlord. None of them were on her or her mother’s side, dead or alive.

Normally, she would’ve deferred to their opinions. Their doubts would’ve wormed their way through her own intelligence, her own instincts to defend what she knew was right. But she now realized that their power relied on her ability to undercut herself. And she was tired of doing that. She and her mother deserved more. She wouldn’t stop until she found the truth of her mother’s life.

TWO DAYS OF SEARCHING FOR AN APARTMENT HAD gone by before Miguel scored a modern one-bedroom in Burbank early Friday afternoon. After a late lunch at an Italian chalkboard-menu eatery blocks from his new place, Margot and Miguel endured the stop-and-go down the 101 for almost twenty-five miles to the hills of Calabasas, west of the San Fernando Valley.

The plan was to check out Mr. Kim’s house where presumably, his widow, Mary Kim, still lived. Margot wanted to find out as much information as she could about Mr. and Mrs. Kim without actually confronting her. Otherwise, Officer Choi was right; she might be revealing the affair unnecessarily to her. And in Margot’s mind, although Mary was once the only person who might have a motivation to harm her mother, the landlord, who had lied to either her or Officer Choi, had become increasingly suspicious; his answering machine now indicated that he was out of town for a family emergency. How convenient.

“Do you want to stay with me on Sunday night—after I move in?” Miguel asked. “Are you comfortable at the apartment by yourself?”

“I think I’ll be okay,” she said. “Besides, I probably should stay at my mom’s and find that landlord. Finish stuff up. Burbank is far.”

Of course, she was happy for Miguel, but she envied how organized he was, how easily he seemed to manage the logistics of life. He had found a better job in another state that gave him more options to pursue his passions, his dreams. He now had an apartment with stainless steel appliances in a LEED-certified building located close to his workplace, an acting studio, shops, and restaurants. Why couldn’t she get her life in order, too?

What was wrong with her?