Page 77 of The Deepest Lake

But she knows already. The boyfriend. He must be.

Rose leans closer, pretending to smell the crushed petals—and she can smell. Not the flower, but him: layers of scent. Cologne, hair gel, but also sweat. She can see a sheen on his forehead, the panic in his eyes. His trembling fingers touch her cheek. She can smell his fear.

In Spanish he whispers, “If I can’t find you again in a few minutes, I’ll meet you in town. I can’t let her hear . . .”

Rose whispers back, in Spanish. “You know where I’m staying?”

He nods. “I’ll find you. Please.” His face is reddening, like he’s about to shout, or cry. “You’re her mother . . .”

That last phrase weakens Rose so suddenly she almost falls to the ground. Su madre. Yes, she is. Oh my god yes. He knows something.

He whispers, “Tengo miedo que—”

Afraid? Her mind is spinning. The words won’t come fast enough. “¿Sobre qué? Dígame.”

“No confíes en—”

Don’t trust who? Which one?

“Please,” Rose manages to say and then it’s too late. Eva strides toward them, her voice a bright bell, ringing with adoration for Mauricio. “Honey! There you are. We need to meet with Astrid about the orphanage, all three of us.”

She steps between Mauricio and Rose, physically parting them.

To Rose she says, “You missed the prompt!”

Eva might as well be talking gibberish. Prompt. Not on your life. Rose has found someone who wants to talk. Someone who knows.

Eva loops her arm around Mauricio’s waist, pulling him away. Rose stays a moment longer, wondering if he’ll look back, wondering how she’ll find him again, watching as Eva guides him toward the house, hoping he’ll be smart enough not to look back. But he does. He looks and he mouths something that she can’t decipher completely. A three-syllable word.

Milagro. A miracle.

Or peligro. Danger.

But which one?

22

JULES

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I stride through the dark back to my cabin, eager to shake off Eva’s desperate pleas. Gaby and Mercedes are at dinner in the main house. No thanks. I can’t deal with a group, and I’ve got my own granola bars.

My phone dings. A text from Eva. I’ll have your passport returned in the morning.

See? It’s all going to be fine.

I search flights. The first affordable one is an entire week away. I could head to Antigua on the way and kill a few days there.

To celebrate my near-freedom and shake off my anxiety about Eva’s roller-coaster moods, I decide to go to bed early, then join a group pre-dawn volcano hike, organized by a woman who works for the hostel in San Felipe. It’s my last chance to do anything adventurous around Atitlán.

I send Eva a text, saying I’ll make sure to be back well before

8 A.M., in time for work. I can be reasonable. Maybe it will help her be reasonable in return.