“Oh no. I’m so very sorry,” the woman exclaims. She’s dressed in a long houndstooth blazer and black pants. “I didn’t see you behind the door.”

Mom waves away her concern, and a round of introductions and handshaking begins. Her name is Carla Stevens, and she’s a political officer in the embassy. Mom takes a seat, and Carla offers us water or coffee.

“It’s good to meet you. I can’t imagine how this must feel for you,” Carla says. Mom’s face grows soft with nostalgia. “I’ve a great deal of respect for your work, Ms. Shephard.”

I put a hand over Mom’s. In the years when she had made waves at State, calling out the sexism and discrimination, many of her colleagues distanced themselves from her. Diplomats tend to be diplomatic, after all. If she hadn’t pushed as hard as she had, she probably would have retired at a higher pay grade.

“I’m sure you’ll do the same for those coming up behind you,” Mom says. She looks at her pointedly, sweetly, as she transfers this obligation onto Carla’s shoulders.

Carla nods and tucks a strand of her walnut-colored hair behind her ear. She extracts a pen and notepad from a desk drawer.

Mom signals for me to take over. I explain that we’ve heard about the government’s commission to find the bodies of the assassinated. Then I tell her that I was orphaned the night of the coup and have been waiting decades for the chance to find answers. I’m even more concise with her than I was when I told my story to Clay. It’s a bit like crossing a river after figuring out where the stepping-stones are. Carla allows me to finish before she speaks.

“First, let me offer my condolences. I can’t imagine the pain this must have caused you,” she says, her brows knitted with concern. “I must admit, I’ve not heard of any search efforts, but I’m going to make a few calls and I’ll see if my contacts with this administration can shed some light.”

“That would be wonderful,” Mom says gratefully.

Carla stands then and waits for us to follow. But the three of us remain fixed in our seats. She blinks twice, slowly, before she flips her notebook open again.

“You mentioned you’re staying at the Intercontinental. Let me get your room number and I’ll be in touch just as soon as—”

“If you need your office to make the calls, we’re happy to wait in the lobby area or an empty conference room or the cafeteria,” I suggest.

Carla looks from me to Mom.

“You understand, of course, that it will take some time to even find the right person to talk to about this,” she says.

Mom nods. She offers an understanding look but continues to sit back in her chair.