It wasn’t that they didn’t trust him. It was more that they were shaken. The adoptive parents stood up—still no words exchanged, their lives synchronized—and headed toward the patio and backyard. Barefoot on the green lawn, a bit apart but still together in some way. Grens looked at the shiny gold clock ticking loudly on the wall, this would take the time it took. By the time they came back, they had walked through the past. Which must be why they looked so exhausted.

“You’ll have to excuse us, Superintendent.”

The woman, who had been childless for so long and then became someone’s mother and then just Anette, spoke quietly now, thoughts without energy.

“But first we found out that she might be in grave danger; that’s what you meant even if you didn’t say it in so many words. Then we were given a name after so many years.”

“No need to apologize. I think I understand.”

“We don’t even know if she’s alive. We haven’t known for some years. So why . . . why do you think she’s in danger?”

“I’ll tell you that, too. When I find her.”

“We need . . .”

“I’m sorry. But all you can do now is give me more information. I’m going to do everything I can to find her.”

The woman looked at her husband again. It was his turn to bring them back in time.

“Her questions continued, but not as often. For long periods she wouldn’t ask any at all. She seemed happier. Until one evening when she was fourteen years old. Then everything changed.”

The man looked at his wife. Hesitated.

“We still don’t know what happened. Nobody knows. Despite an extensive police investigation.”

He sought his life companion’s eyes again. And she nodded. He could continue.

“A party. Young people having fun. But one of the guests, a boy who was slightly older than the others, somebody’s brother, fell from a third-floor balcony. He died immediately. And no one knew why or how it had happened. Hannah took it very badly. Cried. For months. Didn’t want to leave home. We homeschooled her with the school’s permission. And her questions came back. More numerous and specific. She started to remember. Fragments, images of her biological parents. Her siblings. And words. Pesë. Tortë. We didn’t understand them at first, and neither did she. But mom and baba were easier. A linguist who worked for the city helped us. Five, cake, mom, dad were the first four words that just . . . came back. Then another twenty-five followed, maybe thirty. Albanian. The language she probably spoke before she came here.”

The man’s eyes were full of sorrow. He was reliving it.