As soon as I open the door to Brazuca’s apartment with his spare keys, I hear Whisper crying. This momentary distraction takes my attention away from what I should have noticed the moment I walked inside.

There’s a man here. No, men. Plural. One who has stepped behind me from the bedroom and one who is in the living room with Brazuca.

The man behind me isn’t armed, from what I can see, but this does nothing to reduce how tense he makes me. He’s not much taller than me, but he’s lean and muscular. And he can move silently, which says something about his training. It says “don’t fuck with me.” Shouts it, really.

“Ms. Nora Watts?” asks the man sitting in an armchair next to Brazuca, who’s on the couch. He’s Chinese, fit, and compact. I put him somewhere in his sixties, maybe older.

“Who wants to know?” I’m just buying time while I adjust. It’s obvious who he is. My instinct is to delay this conversation as long as possible. Reality, however, won’t wait any longer.

“Nora,” says Brazuca. “This is Edison Lam, Bernard’s father.”

Lam’s father nods. “You were one of the last people to see my son alive, Ms. Watts. I would like some information from you. Do you have some time for a grieving father?” Though it’s posed as a question, the lethal intent of the man behind me, Mr. Lam’s private security, tells me it’s not.

Whisper is now barking, the noise coming from the closed bathroom door. It puts me on edge. “I’m sure my boyfriend told you everything you needed to know,” I say, nodding to Brazuca. I make a split-second decision to continue the ruse we’d used in Indonesia. A couple with some intimacy issues. There’s a flicker of understanding from Brazuca to me, but it’s gone so quickly I think I’m the only one who sees it. I hope so, anyway.

“We decided to wait for you,” says Mr. Lam. I can’t imagine calling the quietly dignified man in front of me anything other than mister. Everything about him demands respect, takes it from the room, and pulls it inward toward his body. Edison seems a ridiculous name for a man like this, yet here we are. It’s possible he has another name, one that reflects his heritage, but I don’t know it.

Brazuca’s voice takes on a gentle tone. “We told the police everything we knew back in Indonesia. Your son hired me to help him look into someone that was hiding out in Lombok. My girlfriend came along for the ride.”

“You’ve worked for Bernard before.”

“Yes, sir,” says Brazuca. “We met back when I was with the police and we developed a rapport.”