Vee was standing on the far side of the street, tiny and humiliated, fingers worrying at the hem of her dress. I crossed the street. As I approached her she held up her phone with the texts I had sent. “Who were you even going to show these to? The police? Mum? Oh, look, honey, our daughter’s a liar.” Her makeup was smeared. She had been crying.

“I’m not building a case against you, Vee. We’ll both delete the texts from our phones and we’ll call that the end of it.”

She looked at me, surprise in her eyes. “You’re not going to show her?”

“Look, I’ve been fifteen, and your mum’s been fifteen, and I guess we all had a traumatic day. But promise me you’ll stop trying to investigate this, and that you’ll stay away from that man. He’s damaged, and he’s unstable.”

“The police are doing nothing.”

“I swear to you that I will hold the police to account for Licia’s disappearance. But you have to stop pursuing Pavel.”

“Because you think he could hurt us?”

I said nothing. Some instinct told me that what Pavel had told me was right, that to investigate too closely would be to put us in danger.

When we got in, Elsa’s new gray bag was standing in the middle of the hallway. Such an odd statement for her to make: so rigid; so colorless; so determinedly practical. Vee noticed me looking, gave a little mock-frown.

“Do you think if you open it all her secrets will fly out?”

“Bed, Vee.”

“I’m pushing my luck now, aren’t I?”

“Bed, love.”

She threw her arms around my neck and hugged me very tight, then walked quietly away, as if embarrassed by the show of emotion.

Twenty-Seven

The next morning the bag was still standing there.

I could hear Elsa in the kitchen making breakfast, cooing to Franklin. I could hear Franklin cooing in reply.

I crouched down, slipped the clasp. Inside was a black leather wallet. In the wallet were a credit card and a pistol license dated 1998. No cash.

Some slight shift in the balance of the light. I looked up. Vee was standing in the doorway of her room. Our eyes met. Three hours’ sleep and a quick shower, but she looked better; held together by nervous energy. There was something adult and appraising in her gaze. “Where is she?” she said.

“Making breakfast.”

I slipped the license into the wallet, and the wallet into the bag.

Vee’s eyes flashed toward the kitchen, then to me. “Dad, no one is that tidy.”

“Have you been going through your mother’s things?”

She gave a little scoffing sound, made a backing-off gesture with her hands. “You’re the one with your hands in your wife’s bag. But sure, make me the bad guy.”

I considered this. I stood up. “I’m sorry.”