Magda Elias turned to her husband. Though she had lived in America for almost thirty years, she still spoke in an off-the-boat Hungarian accent. “You get the boys, Stefan. I’ll help Ginny with supper.”

The old man didn’t answer.

“Stefan, do you hear me?”

“What? What?”

“Peter isn’t going to make it for dinner, Papa,” Rina said. “Can you call the boys to the table?”

Stefan slapped the paper down on the armrest and hoisted himself out of the living-room rocker. “Everything’s okay?”

“Everything’s fine. He’s just working on a new case.”

“What kind of a case?”

“A family disappeared. An Israeli diamond dealer.”

Her parents waited for more.

“That’s all I know,” Rina said.

“Akiva’s looking for a family?” Magda asked. “I thought he was in murder now.”

“Maybe he thinks they were murdered, Mama.”

“Will he be home tonight, Ginny?” her father asked.

Rina smiled to herself. Her parents called her Regina—Ginny—which was her English name. And for some reason, they called Peter by his Hebrew name, Akiva. Maybe Peter sounded just too goyishe for them.

“Of course.” Rina turned to her mother. “Do you want an apron? I don’t think grease does well on silk.”

“This old thing?” Magda pinched the fabric of her blouse and let it drop.

Again, Rina held back a smile. It was a game with Mama. A way to amass compliments without looking needy. The woman was always dressed perfectly. Yet Mama had always been approachable even when Rina was a sticky-fingered child.

“Come into the kitchen,” Rina said. “Let me get you an apron.”

“If you insist,” Magda said. “Stefan, get the boys. Let’s eat before the baby wakes up.”

Rina came back to the dining room, holding a baking dish filled with spinach lasagne. She placed it on a tile trivet, and a moment later, her sons shuffled into the dining room. They plopped themselves down on the chairs after ritually washing their hands and breaking bread. Their long legs sprawled under the table. Rina looked at their pants cuffs—short again. Each must have grown another inch in the past month. The boys were generally good-natured except when they were tired.

Which was all the time.

Between the pounds of homework the school loaded on and the hormones of burgeoning adolescence, they were a cranky lot. Thank God for Peter—a stolid island of refuge in a sea of emotional turmoil.

Sammy adjusted his yarmulke and poured himself a glass of lemonade. “Wow. Lasagne. Is it dairy, I hope? I don’t want to be fleshig.”

“It’s dairy,” Rina answered. “Why don’t you want to be fleshig?”

“I want to eat a milk-chocolate candy bar.”

That’s a reason? Rina thought.

Magda brushed sandy-colored hair away from the boy’s brown eyes. “Think you would like to say hello to your omah?”