We traveled as planned to Cadaqués, several days later. In the beautiful Margarall house we followed the news of the massacre at Cheyne Walk, which mixed with the other terrible bloodbaths of 1969. Eddie Mathers, the Manson Family, Hells Angels, the bomb in Piazza Fontana, the news of Mỹ Lai. Eddie was presumed guilty: the gun had his prints on it, and he’d also left them all over the house. We told the police he had escaped; I was wounded and couldn’t go after him; Juan had to abandon chase because of his health; Stephen had gotten farther, but lost him. We also told this story to Florence and Pedro, and they believed it: why wouldn’t they, when they themselves had met thanks to a similar purge? Florence was surprised Eddie hadn’t killed himself; she had her own vague doubts. They looked for his body in the river, with no luck. The other living witness was Graciela, the doctor: when she’d heard the shots, she’d tried to call the police, but the phone was dead. Eddie had cut the lines.

On the terrace, looking out at the blue sea, the puny boats, the white houses, I had time to think. Encarnación, the pregnant suicide victim, raped by the men of the Order. Eddie, the destroyed son. Both of them wanted to extinguish the lineage, and both had almost put an end to the Order in different ways: Encarnación slaughtered the old people; Eddie, the children. Not everyone, of course. They were right, Juan said, but I wanted a child now more than ever. My son would not be handed over or abused. And he would be the first child of a medium. I would have a family with Juan, and when the time came to lead the Order, or when the correct interpretation of how to keep consciousness alive was found, it wouldn’t be Florence, Mercedes, and Anne who gave the orders. Or at least they would have to negotiate with me.

Dealing with Juan’s depression was the hardest part. During the days we spent in Cadaqués, he never left his room. He couldn’t stand to be in Eddie’s parents’ house, and he was constantly on the verge of confessing the crime. He didn’t commit suicide only because he was always being watched. He ignored me, didn’t want to see Stephen. I understood I had to wait and, moreover, I was sure that a child would restore him. He needed to take care of someone defenseless, someone of his own. To forget about himself.