Alone, Sara stared at the scale model of the hotel, studying the tiny imperfections. The paint line along one solar panel was off. The green wall’s color was too bright to look natural. The windmill blade she fixed now had a slight bulge where there was extra glue.

She listened to the water dripping.

Wine.

That bottle was somewhere in here. She found it.

But no corkscrew.

She rummaged through her tools, past rasps and loops, until her hand closed around a hammer’s grooved handle. She drove a long screw into the cork, grabbed it with the hammer’s claw, and wrenched it free with a squeal and pop, splashing red on her hands.

She drank from the bottle. The taste caught in her throat, thin and sharp. The next sip went down easier.

She put on bachata. Soon enough, she was swaying to it. She sank into the rhythm, tapping to that high, tight guitar.

The drips kept time. Plink. Plop.

A few songs later, she looked at the wine bottle. Half empty. She took another slug and set the bottle beside the model.

Thinking of what was up there now.

She looked at the hammer.

Time to get it.

In the needling rain, Sara turned onto the red road, dull crimson in the low moonlight.

Shivering, she thought about the text from Don Karl. The one saying he would be here tomorrow. The second text, the one she had not shown Tommy, said he needed to see the old hotel’s deed history.

Halfway up, memories began to spool. Some were replays of stories she’d heard of evenings with music and champagne. Then real memories of Pico-Union in L.A.: Stay inside. Avoid anyone official—that was the rule. Anyone who doesn’t look like you—white people.

The old hotel came into view, a hulking silhouette against a field of inky black. In its time, the volcano beyond, now a dull outline, would have glowed orange at night. Setting the mood for elegant gatherings under the stars.

Sara entered the ballroom, the once-grand domain of black-tie waiters bearing silver trays, suits and evening gowns, flowers and sweet perfume. Not the dankness in her nostrils now. Not the black mold her flashlight beam traced from the vaulted ceiling to the terrazzo floor, crumbling above, cracked below.

Bats fluttered overhead.

Sara ducked as they swooped past on whirring flaps into the night.

She pushed through the outer passageways, narrowed into tunnels by low cement canopies and encroaching vines. Leafy fronds scraped her shoulders as she pressed through to the pool. Once a pool, now a depression reclaimed by nature.

Moving through the executive suites, Sara imagined the VIPs and their clandestine affairs: businessmen making deals over whiskey and cigars, lovers flushed with their midnight indiscretions.

She stepped into her grandfather’s old study. Out of all the rooms, she chose this one. She could have picked anywhere. Should have picked somewhere less obvious.

There it was—the mark. The one she’d made years ago, high on the wall. To anyone else, it would look like just a scratch on a wall full of scratches. She held the flashlight’s beam on that mark and traced a line down. There. She propped the flashlight on scraps of rotted wood and aimed at the spot.

She stepped away from the wall.

She could leave it there.

Stick to the plan—leave old things buried and let whatever came next play out.

No. Fuck that.

She pulled the hammer from her backpack, stepped forward, drew it back, eyes on the spot, and slammed it into the wall. Bits of plaster flew, hitting the cement floor with faint scrabbles. A curl of white dust rose.

She slammed again, knocking free chunks, the dust billowing, bitter in her mouth. She slammed it through—the head stuck. Sweat beading on her brow, she wrenched it free and slammed again and again. The spot disappeared into the haze.

A few more whacks. Her arm muscles burned; the hammer grew heavier with each swing. Another swing. Picture that fat fucking ICE agent’s face right there.

A large chunk of plaster fell to the floor.

Sara stepped back.

Her heart slammed into her chest.

The hole was big enough.

She dropped the hammer and reached into the hole.

Nothing.

Sara reached deep and swept her fingertips across the coarse lath.

No.

She stepped back, picked up the flashlight, and shone it at the ceiling mark—two crosshatches, just like she’d made. It was the right spot.

Sara reached back in, stretching—then felt it. She touched a corner, slid her fingers across soft leather beneath a grainy coat of dust. She pinched the edge, got a grip, and pulled it out.

She sat on the floor, angled the flashlight’s beam down, and looked at the ledger. Sara wiped dust from the cracked leather, felt its heft, dreading what it held—the deeds.