Page 117 of The Deepest Lake

“Yes,” I say, grabbing for the end of the rope she’s tossed. Ticklish optimism bubbles in my chest, competing with the nausea in my gut.

“My mother never came looking for me, either,” she says. “At the time, I thought I was lucky. But looking back, I think I wanted her to come. In any case, I finally tired of England and went back to New York, as you know.”

“But you remained estranged from your parents,” I say hopefully.

“Yes, and no. I saw them several times after my daughter was born. The truth is, Jules, until your parents pass on, you will never be truly free.”

Panic seizes me. “Not true. My dad has a new family. He basically doesn’t think about me.”

“But moms are different,” she says, reaching out to slide her hand down my arm, her gaze resting on my abdomen, flat beneath my oversized T-shirt. “Even when there’s conflict, moms can’t ever fully let go.”

I wrap my arms around myself, a chill entering my spine. I’ve made a wrong move. I shouldn’t have steered Eva to contemplate how much easier it would be if my mother were simply dead.

My mother could be in danger. And even if she stays safe and leaves Atitlán at the end of the workshop, in another few weeks it will become clear. I’m not getting bigger. No pregnancy test will help me, then.

“In writing, a plot is the outcome of a character confronting a problem,” Eva says, her expression wistful and more distant now. “No, that isn’t quite right. It’s the outcome of a character confronting an impossible problem.”

Something has changed. She brought me the tea; she believes I’m pregnant; she doesn’t want me to lose “our baby.” But something has changed.

I whisper, “We don’t have a problem.”

“But you’re wrong, Jules. I’m sorry, but you’re wrong.”

35

ROSE

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Lindsay bandages Rose’s scrapes and makes her lie down in Eva’s unmade bed, the last place she wants to be. She can smell the spicy scent of Eva’s perfume. She can see the dents in the pillows, where Eva’s blond head recently rested. She doesn’t want to recuperate in the twisted sheets of the woman who just tried to kill her.

No one believes Rose—not even Lindsay, though she won’t say it so plainly.

“I can’t stay here, in her room.”

“Eva isn’t even here,” Lindsay says, trying to press a hot mug into Rose’s hands. But Rose won’t take it. Her throat feels too raw. She gagged up lots of lake water, but she still feels like she might retch again.

“Where is she?”

“She left and said she’ll be back in an hour. Cancelled the rest of the morning workshops completely. Ana Sofía got everyone right back on the same water taxi they arrived on. They’re on a field trip across the lake.”

“The one that was scheduled for tomorrow. You don’t think that’s odd?”

Lindsay makes no effort to hide her eye roll. “Eva has been blowing us off since the moment we all got here! It has nothing to do with what just happened to you.”

“She made me swim out too far,” Rose tries one more time. “She knew I would end up in trouble.”

“Rose, I know it was scary. And I know she does bad things. But I don’t believe she would plan to drown you.”

“I think she knows who I am. She figured it out the first time we did those journal exercises, or maybe before then.”

“But weren’t you playing with her, too?”

Now Rose is the one scoffing. “I couldn’t just come out and say I was the mother of the personal assistant who drowned during the same week she was working for Eva, and that I’ve started to think Eva knew about it and possibly even covered it up.”