‘No,’ Jo replied. ‘No, unfortunately, Martina died.’

She watched Vale, but the only response she saw was shock. He just stared at her for a moment, as if struggling to process what she was telling him, and then he glanced at his mother, whose fingers had strayed to a necklace she was wearing: a tiny gold crucifix.

‘She’s dead?’ he said. ‘How?’

‘A drug overdose. Crack cocaine.’

There was a sharp intake of breath from Valeria.

‘An overdose?’ he muttered quietly. ‘I can’t believe this.’

‘She was such a sweet girl,’ Valeria said, and worked the crucifix between her fingers. ‘Adrian used to bring her over for dinner, and she was always polite, always so respectful … I never would have thought … Oh, this is awful.’

‘When was the last time you saw Martina?’ Jo asked Vale.

It took a moment for him to find his voice again.

‘When we split up, I guess.’

‘Which was when?’

‘Late spring of ’82.’ He paused again, staring off into a space between Jo and the mantel. For a moment, she wondered if he was trying to formulate a plan, a route out of this, a lie, but – just like before, when she’d seen him interacting with his mom – it was hard to detect any deceit, if it was even there. His eyes came back to her. He was handsome, olive-skinned, muscular, but for a second he seemed pale and small. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, ‘I’m having a real hard time with the idea that …’ He faded out again.

‘The idea that what?’

He shrugged. ‘That she’s dead.’

‘Was it her anxiety?’ Valeria said from the table.

Jo glanced at her. ‘What do you mean?’

Valeria looked guilty, as if she’d been caught gossiping.

‘It’s okay, Ma,’ Vale said, holding up a hand to his mother. ‘Mom just means, was it the drugs that killed her or did she develop breathing problems because of her anxiety stuff?’

‘What anxiety stuff?’

‘The panic attacks.’

Jo eyed him.

He frowned, looking confused, uncertain of what Jo’s silence meant. ‘She never took drugs when we were together – not stuff like crack, anyway – but Martina used to suffer these … I don’t know, I guess you would call them “episodes”.’ He frowned again. ‘She’d get real panicky all of a sudden, irrational, impossible to calm down, and it got so bad that the doctor had to prescribe her these pills to take. Stuff like Xanax.’