Page 98 of The Deepest Lake

The dry retch isn’t convincing. I tense my stomach and open my mouth, arching my back.

There was one thing I wanted more than anything . . .

It’s coming.

There’s no better time to dump a body . . .

I manage to vomit up a thin stream of papaya-bright liquid.

The whole time, Eva has been watching with her hands on her hips, head cocked.

“Poor sweetie,” she says, her expression inscrutable. “Has this been happening for long?”

“When was your last period?” Eva asks the next time she comes to the hut, a day after I convinced her I had morning sickness.

“Gosh, I’m not sure. I’ve lost track.”

“Oh dear,” Eva says, but she’s smiling. “That’s no good. It’s been more than a month since your stay here began.”

My stay. As if I checked out on that last day—luggage packed, best wishes imparted—instead of stepping into a rowboat with a murderous woman.

“Is that right?” I ask, shaking my head. Portrait of a confused and subservient girl, the one who showed up at Casa Eva only wanting a short-term job, desperate to please Eva and earn her favor, the one who does not see the gears turning in Eva’s head. “I just think I’m late because I’ve lost weight. I can’t be pregnant. I mean . . . I can.”

“You can?” she asks, still smiling.

It takes no effort at all to make my eyes water. All I need to do is close them and think of home, of my mother wondering where on earth I am.

“Oh, honey, it’s all right! Mistakes happen. And sometimes they aren’t even mistakes. Life is like that.”

Tears flowing down my cheeks, I nod again, trying to communicate gratitude for Eva’s wisdom.

The hard part is not saying too much. Letting Eva steer the plot. After a sideways embrace, she pulls back and looks me squarely in the eye. “Is it Mauricio’s?”

I hold back from what I want to say: Does he know where I am? Has he come looking for me? Has anyone come?

“Yes,” I finally say. Deep exhale.

Mauricio of the broad shoulders. Mauricio of the lovely smile and resilient demeanor. Watching Eva, I feel like I can see into her widening pupils, imagining how adorable our baby would be, mine and his. Jules for the writing ability and fair hair. Mauricio for the gorgeous complexion and better temperament—and the dark eyelashes. Our baby should have his eyelashes.

See how easy it is to play this game?

“The important thing is to eat and drink carefully now,” Eva says, a deep furrow appearing between her eyes.

“I feel good,” I say, almost too quickly. “Except for the morning sickness, I mean.”

It won’t help if she thinks this fetus has some defects from the powerful herbs she’s been forcing into my stomach, day after day.

“That’s good.”

“Even the tea, it was natural, right? I’m sure it’s fine. But I can’t keep it down now, even if it is fine.”

This is more talking than I’ve done in weeks, and I already feel the throb coming on.

“The tea was strong,” Eva concedes. “We’d better not risk it.”

“Right, right,” I say, glancing at my poker hand, trying to decide how much to risk. “I don’t know what I’d do without you, Eva.”

Eva says nothing. I feel my heart pounding. Do I fold and wait for a better hand? Do I go all in?