I kept reliving those last moments on the deck as though thinking about them would change anything. I should have hit the man before he stabbed Cristóbal. I should have jumped behind my husband and saved him from drowning. I should have. I should have. And then, after I was done tormenting myself for what I didn’t do, I would try to convince myself that I did the right thing. I’d called for help immediately after Cristóbal’s head got swallowed by a wave. I’d pressured the captain to stop the ship. I’d volunteered to go with the search team in one of the lifeboats. (The captain, however, denied my request. It was too dangerous for a woman, he said.) I’d stayed on the deck until dawn, my gaze fixed on the unrelenting waters, hoping to catch a glimpse of my husband.

They’d searched for hours, shining bright lights on the water’s surface, calling out his name. But they couldn’t find him or the vile man who had killed him. The captain offered me the consolation that my husband must have died a quick death. He probably didn’t suffer, he said, with that wound you mention. He probably lost consciousness from the loss of blood.

Yes, that was my consolation. He must not have suffered.

Except that he never would’ve died had I not brought him to this wretched ship. Had I not fought with him that evening, he would’ve spent the night sleeping on top of the metal keys of his typewriter instead of in the bottom of the ocean.

Had I not, had I not.

I’d yelled at the captain when they stopped the search. I’d demanded they keep looking. I told him we were important people in Spain. Filthy rich. Plantation owners. We would pay him with gold, with land, if he found my Cristóbal. But when none of the yelling, the promises, or the threats worked, I begged. The man, his face tan, his mustache covering his upper lip, managed a sad smile and placed his hand on my shoulder.

“I’m sorry, ma’am. There’s nothing else we can do. Your husband is with Our Lord now.”

“How do you know?” I said, bitterly. His eyes widened a bit. I bet he’d never heard a blasphemy of this caliber coming from a Spanish woman before.

But instead of a look of reproach or a curt dismissal, he gently squeezed my shoulder and nodded.

The truth was I didn’t want to think about where Cristóbal might be right now. None of the possibilities sounded good. They were downright horrific. Decomposing at the bottom of the ocean. Eaten by sharks. Bloated. Purple. I shut my eyes. I’d rather think of him coming back to me, somehow reemerging from the water and climbing the ten, fifteen meters from the waterline to the deck.