Which meant something had likely happened to her guardian. But again I was stumped. Because if the person slipped and cut their head open on a rock, or had a heart attack or some other serious medical emergency, you’d think Rosa would tell me. Yet the fact she was mum on this, as well as the so-called ghost, led me to conclude the two were related. Something happened to Rosa’s guardian, and for whatever reason Rosa believed a sinister spirit was responsible.

“You don’t believe me.”

Her voice startled me. “Huh?” I said, even though I knew what she meant.

“You don’t think there’s a ghost on the island.”

“Did you actually see one?”

“No…” She frowned, struggling with what to tell me. Then she blurted, “It killed my brother.”

I stopped. She did too. She looked up at me, and she seemed so small, so afraid.

I said, “Your brother brought you here to see the dolls?”

“To show his girlfriend the dolls.”

His girlfriend? I crouched next to Rosa. “How many people did you come here with?”

“Just them. My brother, Miguel, and his girlfriend. He wanted to show her the dolls. We made camp, and then…then he wanted to be alone with Lucinda, and he told me to go away.”

“Lucinda is his girlfriend?”

She nodded. “So I went away. I found a pond. I was trying to catch frogs. And then I heard my brother scream, and he never screams.”

“What happened to him?”

She scrunched up her face, fighting more tears. “I don’t know.”

“You don’t know?”

“He told me to run. He sounded like…”

“Like what?”

“Like he was dying.”

“What about his girlfriend? What happened to her?”

“I don’t know. I ran away until I found that house.” She pointed back toward Solano’s cabin. “I fell asleep on the bed. But when I woke up, it was dark, and I was scared, so I hid underneath it.”

“You’ve only been here for one day?”

She nodded.

I stood, took her hand again. One day, I thought. Which meant if what she was telling me was the truth, and if someone had indeed attacked her brother, then the person could still be around. I recalled the feeling of being watched earlier. The dolls—or a living person? I looked past Rosa, then over my shoulder, my eyes searching the trees.

“Come on, Rosa,” I said. “Let’s get to the others.”

1954

It was a warm spring day. María, now in the third grade, spent recess walking in the field behind the school. She held Angela in her right hand, the doll’s feet dragging on the ground. Her mother often tried to stop her and Angela from being friends, but she would always throw a temper tantrum, yelling and crying, until her mother gave in.