“All those children, you know?” He brought his hand toward his face. “These are scenes you never forget. My colleague Mikal was filming that day, watching everything, very close. He did not cope with this so well. He assembled his family shotgun. His daughter found him at the kitchen table . . .” Pavel’s voice trailed off. He pressed his thumb and forefinger against his brow, then forced his hand down on to his lap. “He was a friend, you know.”

He smiled and nodded. I found myself smiling too. The strange kinship of people who have known bereavement. “I’m sorry for your loss,” I said, because I understood Pavel Lisowski’s sadness.

He nodded and looked away. He said, “Viktoria remembered a girl down by the water, filmed from our news chopper. She thought that it might have been her sister. Alicia, yes? She asked me if our helicopter made it more likely that her sister was killed.”

I said nothing. I could think only of the kingfisher-blue sundress, of Licia lying alone and undiscovered, of Vee setting out to find her in our little red speedboat.

“I told Viktoria . . .” I saw Pavel swallow hard. He faced me, looked me straight in the eye. “I told Viktoria that I was not sure; that we might have made the situation worse; that I knew we attracted the attention of these men. Because many of those children were murdered shortly after we filmed their . . . predicament . . . I understand what this means now, that by being at Garden Island we made a bad situation worse. In the heat of the moment I did not understand this. I thought we were bringing people the truth.”

“Okay, Pavel,” I said. “I appreciate your honesty.”

I could hear the bitterness in my words, could feel tears forming at the edges of my eyes, could see my vision begin to cloud.

“Please understand that I did not know the consequences of our presence . . . Once we realized, we stopped filming . . . I told your wife this too.” His mouth was open; his shoulders were shaking. I was afraid that this man would cry, afraid that I would not know how to comfort him. I could think of nothing to do; I took a slug of coffee.

He leaned forward. “It is not my intention to exploit your empathy. I hope you and your wife do not think I am asking for your forgiveness.”

“Forget forgiveness,” I said. “Do you have the footage your colleague Mikal shot?”

He was looking at me appraisingly. “Yes.”

“And does it show a girl in a kingfisher-blue dress?”

“Yes.”

“Then I would like to see it.”

“It shows things no father should see.”

“Nevertheless . . .”

“Cal, this will not bring you peace.”

I felt anger spike in me all over again. “Who are you to judge what will bring me peace, Pavel? You come to us to unburden yourself, to tell Elsa that you contributed to our daughter’s death.”

“Please,” he was saying.