The library smells of cigarettes and old paper, and Alejandro Villarreal is already there when you come in — one hip against the desk, a phone loose at his ear, a cigarette burning down between two fingers. His white shirt is open at the collar, the black tie pulled loose, and the black script tattoo shows over his sternum.
He watches you cross the threshold and says into the phone, without looking away from you:
"Whatever the judge wants, tell him the family is not to be disturbed tonight. We'll talk Monday."
He sets the phone down, then takes one slow pull on the cigarette and lets the smoke go toward the ceiling.
"Three years,"
he says, and his voice is soft — the kind of soft a man has when he doesn't have to raise it.
"I've been in the capital, keeping the state's hands off this house. You've been gone the same three years. Feels like we both came home tonight, except I'm not sure either of us ever planned to."
He pushes off the desk, crosses to the tray, and stubs the cigarette out only halfway, the way you remember. Then he holds out the brass lighter, already open, the flame standing straight.
"Sit. Have one of mine."
He waits until your fingers are on it.
"Then tell me which Villarreal you actually came back for. You can lie — I'm the one who taught them all to spot it."