“It wasn’t a serial killer,” Pita said, stopping her pacing and facing them. Her voice was flat, her color drained. “It was the ghost. I know none of you believe ghosts are real, but they are. Jesus said so.”

“I never—”

“Not you! The real Jesus. It’s in the Bible—”

“The Bible’s just a book—

“A little girl died here!” Pita exploded. “She died here, perhaps in a horrible, inconsolable way. Her spirit’s not at rest. Solano knew this. Look around you! Look at all the dolls! They’re offerings to her, to appease her spirit.” She glared at each of them in turn. “But now he’s dead, and she’s alone, and she’s angry. Isn’t this obvious? She killed Miguel and stole his eyes. So isn’t this pretty damn obvious?”

1956

1

María stood at a tall window, her nose pressed against the glass, watching as her parents drove away. Then hedges obscured them from view and they were gone.

She didn’t understand why they had brought her here. Her mother had told her it was a special school. She would like it. She would meet new friends. That all sounded okay. But then she said María would have to sleep at the school too. That wasn’t good. That was terrifying. She wanted to keep living in her house. She wanted her room, her bed, her dolls. She glanced at Angela, who she held by the arm. “I want to go home,” she said.

“Maybe you’ll go home soon?” Angela said.

“I want to go now.”

“I don’t think you can.”

“Why’re my mom and dad leaving me here? What did I do—?”

The door to the room opened and a nun entered. She had a strawberry pudding face framed by tufts of white hair visible beneath her funny hat. Mean eyes peered out from behind silver-rimmed spectacles. “My name is Sister Lupita,” she announced.

“My name’s María.”

“No, it’s not, you snottery pup,” she snapped in a completely different demeanor than when she’d spoken to María’s parents. “It’s 46. From this point on, your name is the number 46. Do you understand that?”

She didn’t. “My name’s María.”

Sister Lupita leaned toward her. María didn’t know what was coming and simply stood there. The nun clapped her hands against the side of María’s head simultaneously with the flats of her palms. Pain lanced through her ears, and she almost fell over.

“Ow!” she cried.

“What’s your name?”

“46!”

“Remember that. Now give me that doll.”

“She’s mine!”

Whack. Harder this time.

“Ow!”

“Give me the doll.”

María began to cry.

Whack.

“Ow!”

“There will be no crying in this school. Crying is a sign of weakness, and weakness is the work of the devil. Now give me the doll.”