Page 123 of The Deepest Lake

And every word is galling. Her eyes skim. Here is the record of what Jules went through—what Rose couldn’t save her daughter from going through. She knew there had to be more somewhere. Both her logic and intuition told her so.

“I didn’t understand. Oh, Mercedes—thank you. Lo siento.”

She almost missed this, but she now has a piece of Jules that once seemed irretrievable. She takes the Bible. She closes the loose pages, about thirty in all, between the faux-leather covers and presses the big heavy book to her chest.

Mercedes sighs, relieved of this burden she’s been carrying for so long.

Rose feels the wood planks beneath her feet vibrate. It’s Barbara, shuffling with heavy steps through the dim and smoky evening light, to the end of the dock.

“We’ve got two boats. Let’s get the first group out to safety. Then we’ll take care of everyone else.”

Barbara starts shouting, calling for staff to come forward. Rose sees Eduardo, Gaby and another young girl, the daughter of Concha, the only one wearing a life preserver.

The smoke has thickened. They’re all coughing. Unreality has set in. They’ve been looking at distant flames all week, smelling smoke, but now it’s close, and real.

“One more,” Barbara says. Concha’s daughter steps forward.

Lindsay, already in the boat, says, “Rose, you need to come, now.”

Concha’s daughter steps back like she’s been reprimanded.

“No, you go,” Rose says, squatting down to look the girl in the eye. “Sí, tú. Te toca a ti. Todo estará bien.”

Eduardo pushes off and begins rowing, then he pauses only a hundred feet from shore, watching.

Barbara shouts, “Don’t wait! It’s safer closer to San Felipe.”

After they’ve disappeared around the nearest point, Rose asks, “Are there more staff in the house?”

“No.”

“Didn’t you say we could fit ‘everyone else’ into the second boat?”

The fire has advanced so close they can now see glimmers of flame at the back of the well-tended yard. They can hear cracking and popping. Rose’s heart is beating fast and her eyes are bleary from the smoke. Every part of her body is telling her to run—but where? Only the water is safe.

Barbara unties a rope around the cleat of the smaller second boat and gestures.

It hits Rose now. Only the two of them are left.

“I’m not going into that boat with you.”

“No. Of course not.”

Barbara brings her hand to her forehead and there it sits as she slowly begins to rock, heel-to-toe and toe-to-heel, like she is soothing herself.

Finally, Barbara drops her hand and looks at Rose. “It’s not what you think.”

“I don’t know what to think. I’m finished trusting anyone here—Eva, you, Hans. Anyone.”

“I know what that’s like,” Barbara says, looking so tired now she can barely keep her eyes open. Her wrinkle-creased face is like a pillow that’s lost half of its stuffing. Her shirt and her pants are both too big for her, like she’s recently lost weight. Rose found her so intimidating before that she didn’t notice she looked unwell. Cancer? Grief? Guilt?

“The hardest part is when you put all your faith in one person,” Barbara says. “I took care of her. I moved things around to keep her out of trouble. All the houses, all the mortgages, all the things she likes to have—the clothes and the trips. Taxes, delayed advances. She’s not a numbers person.”

Rose feels the brief pleasure of long-delayed confirmation. “So, you were skimming money meant for the orphanage.”

“Not really.”

“Not really?”

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