The roots of her hair contracted as the blood drained from them. “What do you mean?”

“Are you sure you had it in the first place?”

“Of course I had it! I’d torn a page for you.”

“It was found in the possession of some wretched man on the other side of town. Some villager brought it to the police.”

“I—I hid it—”

Sergio held up his hand, stopping her. He leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. “Let me talk.” His voice was just above a whisper.

Her cheeks burned. Poor Rafael. His brother must have found the ledger and handed it over to the authorities. That’s why he had been angry with Rafael, as the pineapple vendor had reported.

“Are you listening?” Sergio asked. When Batya leaned forward, too, he continued. “There was a bombing this morning. In Joaquin Ramos’s house. He was killed. His office burned down.”

The meaning of Sergio’s words sank in slowly, like dandelion seeds drifting into the grass. The prosecutor was dead. His investigation—his notes, the letters she had stolen, her written testimony—all had gone up in smoke. Batya dropped her face into her hands. There would be no revenge. No destroying Moskowitz, no taking down Zwi Migdal, no releasing of the thousands of sisters from bondage. She recalled the sight of the frantic charge of fire wagons. The blaze must have raged for hours after the bombing. It must have spread to nearby houses.

No! Please, God. The syncopated chugging of the train hammered in Batya’s ears, noise filling her head. She heard the screams of people being burned alive. Her theft of the ledger had set off a deadly chain reaction. “It’s me,” she whispered. “I caused it. I hid the ledger in a sweets seller’s cart—”

Sergio grabbed her hands. “No, you didn’t. We know from our contact at the police that the ledger was delivered after the bombing. It couldn’t have been the result of it. Do you understand? It could have resulted from no more than a suspicion based upon the many interviews Joaquin Ramos had conducted. He’d made his stance on the matter known.” Sergio’s voice softened. “We failed, but not because we didn’t do the right thing.” His hand rested on Batya’s shoulder. The two of them were quiet for some time. She felt his hand tremble.

Although she’d never seen it unclothed, she knew his body so well. He was suffering, too.

“Tickets!” The conductor opened the door, breaking their contact. “Concepcion del Uruguay,” he announced.

Uruguay? Ulmann was correct that she was on the wrong train. Batya waited until the conductor left before she asked, “Am I not going to Moïseville?”