The figure half turned. A moment of hesitancy.

It was all I needed. I threw myself at the torso as the left leg landed on the terrace outside, held the figure by the neck, tried to drag him in through the window.

Her.

The figure turned. A woman.

I stopped.

She swung at me with her right hand.

From behind me I heard Vee say, “No!”

Something cold and hard connected with my cheek. A tooth bit through my lower lip. I tasted blood. I grabbed at her, saw a flash of silver-blond hair.

The woman struck me a second time, from high up. The blow landed on the crown of my head. A metal surface, hard, textured.

I stood stupefied. The woman tore herself free. She ran across the terrace, turned and lowered herself to the grass below, ran out of sight toward the parking lot.

I turned to see Vee in the doorway, Franklin in her arms, a look of horror on her face.

“It’s okay,” I said. “It’s all right.”

“It’s not,” said Vee. “Get away from the window.”

I closed the window, lowered the blinds, turned the slats till they blocked out the light.

“You see?” I said. “It’s okay.” But I was breathing hard, and she could hear it.

I walked to the living room, checked the lock of the door to the terrace.

I heard Vee’s feet padding behind me. “Dad, please.”

I checked the window lock. I turned.

Vee, standing there, furious. Because anger was easier than fear.

“He has a gun,” she said.

Of course. The texture of the metal. A pistol grip.

“She,” I said dully. “It was a woman.”

Vee, staring at me in horror.

“Dad, you need to get back.”

I reached toward the window, released the metal blind.

“She’s gone, Vee. It’s okay.”

Franklin was screaming. I reached out to take him and he shrank away. Vee put a protective arm around him.

“Am I bleeding?” I said.

“From your cheek. And your lip. And from the top of your head.”

Twice I put Franklin to bed. Twice he lay silent, staring upward. As I left the room he began to cry despairingly: long rasping sobs, disturbingly adult.

“You can’t blame him,” said Vee.

“No,” I said. “You can’t.”

I was afraid of what the police would say: that I should have kept us out of the public eye, that I had drawn attention to my wife and my children. But when Mikkel Hansen arrived he was nothing but kind and helpful. He interviewed Vee and me together. Franklin sat on my knee, anxiously gripping my thumbs, determined not to be left alone.

Hansen asked only one question that I could not answer. “Mr. Curtis, where is your wife?”