I feel a tightness in my chest. Tears blur my vision and turn the world into swirls of gray and blue.

I wrap my arms around Mom and catch the light scent of her perfume. Even in the middle of winter, she smells like crushed flowers and nectar.

“I love you, Mom,” I say, through a clenched throat. Her arms hold me tight, as they always have. Over the years she’s told me not to follow in her footsteps. She’s hinted and said outright that I would be a great mother. Every time I’ve told Mom that I’m not suited for motherhood, she’s looked like I’ve revealed a fresh tragedy to her. Even now, I can see she still holds out hope.

We walk slowly, the weight of the island’s history pulling at my feet. Maybe it’s the thousands of damaged people—the war veterans, the orphans, the mentally ill—wanting someone to hear their stories.

Mom clears her throat.

“There’s something I want to share with you,” she says. “The Afghan government formed a commission to search for the bodies of those killed in the revolution. They’re officially searching, though they don’t have a lot of information yet. Thirty years later, everyone who knew anything is either dead, gone, or scared.”

I’m halted by this news. I’ve kept up my own searches and haven’t seen an announcement about this government search.

“Where did you hear this?” I ask Mom. “And why didn’t you tell me?”

“I didn’t want this news to toy with you. I heard from someone I used to work with at the embassy. If they’d found anything, I would have let you know. I didn’t want to get your hopes up.”

“Who was it? Does he know if they’ve found anything?”

“No, he hasn’t heard anything and wouldn’t hear anything directly. It’s people he knows passing info along. But maybe the investigation will turn something up. It’s been long enough.”

I look at her.

“Mom, who is ‘he’?”

Mom looks from me to the choppy water and back.

“Leo.”

Leo Harris, from the Islamabad embassy. Mom hasn’t mentioned him in a while. I remember sitting across a desk from him with Tilly. He went from stalling our request for a passport to escorting us to the tarmac to board a diverted plane. I remember him watching us board, hands on his hips and shirt darkened with sweat.

“Leo was CIA, wasn’t he?” I say. I don’t know why I’ve asked that way, as if I already know the answer. It’s never occurred to me that Leo was anything but a Foreign Service officer.

Mom nods.

“He couldn’t tell me much then, but he’s been able to share a bit more now.”

“Was he involved? Did he know what was coming?” I ask.