“I was raped; I didn’t have my arms amputated,” she snapped at Ana when the housekeeper tried to assign her lighter cleaning tasks. “Nothing will happen to me if I vacuum and use a mop.”

Of course that made Ana burst into tears, and Rosa and I had to spend the next twenty minutes trying to calm her down. The older woman has been very emotional since our return, openly grieving my miscarriage and Rosa’s assault.

“She’s taking it worse than my own mother,” Rosa told me last week, and I nodded, not surprised. Though I’d only met Mrs. Martinez a couple of times, the plump, stern woman had struck me as an older version of Beth, with the same tough shell and cynical outlook on life. How Rosa managed to remain so cheerful with a mother like that is something that will always be a mystery to me. Even now, after everything she’s been through, my friend’s smile is only a bit more brittle, the sparkle in her eyes just a shade less bright. With her bruises nearly healed, one would never know that Rosa survived something so traumatic—especially given her fierce insistence on being treated as normal.

Sighing again, I watch as she loads the washer with brisk efficiency, separating out the darker clothes and placing them into a neat pile on the floor. When she’s done, she turns to face me. “So did you hear?” she says. “Lucas located the interpreter girl. I think he’ll go after her after he flies your parents home.”

“He told you that?”

She nods. “I ran into him this morning and asked how that’s going. So yeah, he told me.”

“Oh, I see.” I don’t see, not in the least, but I decide against prying. Rosa’s been increasingly closemouthed about her strange non-relationship with Lucas, and I don’t want to press the issue. I figure she’ll tell me when she’s ready—if there’s anything to tell, that is.

She turns back to start the washer, and I debate whether I should share with her what I learned yesterday… what I still haven’t shared with Julian. Finally, I decide to go for it, since she already knows part of the story.

“Do you remember the pretty young doctor who treated me at the hospital?” I ask, leaning against the dryer.

Rosa turns back toward me, looking puzzled at the change of topic. “Yes, I think so. Why?”

“Her last name is Cobakis. I remember reading it on her name tag and thinking that it seemed familiar, like I’d come across it before.”

Now Rosa looks intrigued. “And did you? Come across it, that is?”

I nod. “Yes. I just couldn’t remember where—and then yesterday, it came to me. There was a man by the name of George Cobakis on the list I gave to Peter.”

Rosa’s eyes widen. “The list of people responsible for what happened to his family?”

“Yes.” I take a deep breath. “I wasn’t sure, so I checked my email last night, and sure enough, there it was. George Cobakis from Homer Glen, Illinois. I noticed that name originally because of the location.”