I’d often asked myself what I would do once I found out who had tried to kill me. I didn’t think I could retaliate in a similar fashion. I didn’t see myself killing either one of my sisters or my brother. It was not in my nature. I would probably just collect all the evidence and take it to the authorities. Let them deal with it. I’d thought about paying the police a visit anyway—not for the purposes Soledad was expecting—but to warn them of what had happened aboard the Andes. What stopped me was the possibility that they would take the investigation from my hands and ruin everything I’d been working toward. They would probably try to appease me, like Captain Blake had done, and then tell me the investigation had to be conducted under British jurisdiction. But if I presented proof, or better yet, a confession, things would be different. They couldn’t ignore me.

After breakfast, I went to Vinces with Laurent with the excuse that I needed to go to church and confess. I didn’t want to confess, certainly not to my brother. What I wanted was to get a confession from him.

Alberto smiled at me from across the nave. Gone were the pale face and the confused expression I’d seen the other day.

“What a pleasure to have you here, Don Cristóbal, but you’re a little late for mass.”

“That’s all right. I would like to have a word with you, if you may. It’ll only take a couple of minutes.”

“A confession?”

“You could say that.”

Nodding, he led the way to a sacristy saturated with incense. There was an enormous cross behind a desk, where vessels, candles, and other religious items sat. There was also a bench-like couch with burgundy cushions, where the two of us sat, and an open armoire where I could spot cassocks and white, purple, and green robes.

“How can I help you?” He’d acquired that solemn tone that priests often take during sermons. He hadn’t seemed so grave when he sat across the table in the bar last week.

I didn’t know how to start.

“Did you always want to be a priest, Alberto?”

He was taken aback, probably by my lack of reverence, but recovered quickly.

“No,” he said slowly. “I wanted to be an architect.”

I remained quiet, expectant.