The woman was not horribly burned or mutilated. She did not suffer from a disfiguring illness. She was in fact quite beautiful. The years had not been kind certainly—she must have been at least fifty, her leathery skin wind-burned and sun-creased—but her bone structure would be the envy of many women. The vertical marionette lines alongside her mouth were carved especially deep, giving her the hinged-jaw look of a ventriloquist’s dummy.

She took a bite from the carrot, revealing a missing incisor. Then she chewed, staring myopically into space, apparently not bothered in the least that five strangers were staring at her with equal parts incredulity and confusion.

Elizaveta looked at the others. Pita and Jesus remained by the far wall, speaking quietly to one another. Rosa stood behind Jack, peeking around his legs.

“I don’t think she’s all there,” Jack said softly.

“Shhh,” Elizaveta whispered. “She can hear you.”

“You think they have an English school out here on this island?”

Elizaveta watched María, but the woman showed no signs of understanding what they were saying. “Who do you think she is? Solano’s daughter?”

Jack shrugged. “Must be.”

“What about the other two in the photo then?”

“Ask her.”

“She’s dangerous,” Pita hissed. “We have to at least tie her up.”

Jack said, “You think she’ll talk if you do that?”

“She has a knife!”

“I have a gun.” Then, to Elizaveta: “Ask her.”

Elizaveta cleared her throat. The woman looked at her.

“Hi, María,” she said.

“Hi,” she replied in her peculiar voice.

“I’m Eliza.”

“My name’s María.”

“I know that, María. Do you live on this island?”

“Yeah,” she said.

“Are you alone?”

She hesitated.

“Are you alone?”

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t know?”

“I said I don’t know!”

Elizaveta glanced at Jack. He was frowning, apparently having followed the gist of the questioning.

“She talks funny,” Rosa said.

“I talk funny,” the woman parroted.

Rosa giggled.

The woman smiled.

“I’m Rosa,” she said.

“I’m María. My dad let me out of my room today.”

“Your dad?” Elizaveta said.

She held out her hand, which gripped the partly eaten carrot. “I painted my nails today.” Her fingernails were indeed a bright orange, though the paint was chipped. They clearly weren’t done today; perhaps a week or so ago.

Rosa asked, “Did you paint them?”

“Yeah.” She was still smiling.

“They’re pretty.”

“I have a spare finger.”

Elizaveta didn’t understand. She was wondering if María meant she had a mutated extra digit when she noticed that only three of the woman’s four fingernails were painted orange. The index fingernail was untouched.

She said, “Is your father on the island, María?”

“He’s gone to the city.”

“When?”

“Yesterday.”

Elizaveta was dubious. “Are you sure?”

“I said yesterday!”

“Okay—yesterday. What’s his name?”

“He’s gone to the city.”