Zofia had put up a parasol on the brownish grass behind their house. Thirty degrees and still climbing. Two proud big brothers hurried over and took turns lifting their little sister out of her stroller, sat down in the shade, and drank a glass of juice with ice cubes in it, then another.

Hoffmann looked around and couldn’t see them. That was good. If he couldn’t figure out where Nic and Juan were keeping watch from right now, then neither could Zofia or the people threatening them. He stretched an arm into the air, a sign to them that he’d take over now, and they could go home, get ready for the next call.

He kissed his wife, always twice, then it was his turn.

To pick up his little girl.

Luiza. Hugo had chosen her name and insisted it be spelled with a z, just like Mom’s. When Piet held her in his arms. Saw that little mouth yawn. Felt those tiny fingers wrapping around one of his own. It was as if she existed, and yet not. As if she were barely real. As if any minute someone might tap him on the shoulder and tell him, You imagined her, you’re holding nothing but air in your arms.

He kissed her on the forehead twice, just like her mother.

Kissed her cheeks, so round and soft.

Brushed her little nose, her forehead, her chin.

“Piet, what is it?”

Zofia was staring at him. But he couldn’t return her gaze.

“Like I told you yesterday. Nothing.”

“Please, Piet. Just stop it. I know you so well—the way you breathe, move. Tell me what’s going on. I need to know so I can prepare myself.”

He didn’t answer. Not there in the garden. Not in the kitchen or in the living room that evening when she tried to catch his eyes without the boys noticing. Not even when they were naked in each other’s arms, making love in that intense way they rarely did these days, and she suddenly interrupted their movements and pulled away.

“I can’t.”

“Zofia, what . . .”

“I can feel there’s something going on. You’re not present. And if you’re not here—then I’m not, either. Talk to me, Piet.”

Not even then.

He’d promised her the truth so many times. He’d even told her about the deaths he was responsible for.

But this—he couldn’t.

And so that’s why they lay on either side of the bed, as far from each other as they could get, doing their best not to let bare skin touch.