He found the manner of her death unbearable, and sometimes he believed that his own inability to abandon mourning was connected not simply to her death, but to the way in which she died. It was as if he had to compensate for that act of omission and for his own act of omission in not saying good-bye. The futility of this task, of which he was aware, did not deter him. Max had told him once, sharply, to stop doing penance. Rowland, hearing the accuracy of the remark, turned away in silence. He felt penance had been imposed upon him: choice was not involved.

Now he never spoke of Esther to anyone, under any circumstances. He preserved his grief with this privacy, and when—with the passing of time—he sensed that this grief was less intense, it made him ashamed.

Grief, he was beginning to discover, could not be activated at will, no, not even predawn, alone in a cold house, in an empty room. Esther was beginning to slip away from him. He could still recapture the sound of her voice, and sometimes the exact quality of her gaze, but her image was more shadowy than before. He could sense her, escaping his grasp, edging away from him into that netherworld the dead occupy, while more vivid figures, living figures, moved to the fore.

Was this release, or betrayal? Could you betray the dead? Once he would have answered that last question in the affirmative; now he was unsure.

He waited another hour, and then—at seven—called Gini, who was still in the country with Charlotte, but preparing to catch an early flight to Amsterdam. There she was going to see Anneke’s parents, who might or might not have information about Star.

“Ask if he could be American,” Rowland said. “Ask if he could have American connections.”

“Why? Rowland, I’m not hopeful they’ll know anything anyway.”

“Never mind. Just ask.”

When he had hung up, he felt angry with himself. He was doing what he most despised, breaking every rule in his own book. He was seeing connections where none existed—but then, that was not surprising, he told himself. For several reasons, among them lack of sleep, his judgment was impaired.

“Is there any chance this Star could be American?” Gini asked. “Or could have American connections? Did your daughter Anneke ever mention making American friends?”

Across the room from her, Erica van der Leyden shook her head. “No. Apart from the note Anneke left, she never mentioned this man. I don’t recall her having any American friends. We lead a quiet life. Anneke was at school all day. When she came home, she had homework to do. If she was out, it was always with friends I knew. My husband and I never allowed her to wander around Amsterdam on her own, going to cafés, that sort of thing. Anneke had a strict upbringing. My husband and I are old-fashioned.”

“Of course,” Gini said politely, wondering whether there was any point in continuing. She had been here, in this lovely, tranquil, exquisitely furnished room for nearly an hour. To enter it was like stepping into one of the Dutch interior paintings she had always loved. A Delft-tiled wood-burning stove stood in the corner; tall windows overlooked one of the loveliest canals in Amsterdam. Erica van der Leyden was as civilized and as understated in appearance as the room; she spoke perfect English; she was about thirty-six, dressed in conservative clothes, low-heeled shoes, a well-cut skirt, a sweater, and pearls.