“Calm down, Tatiana,” the bookseller broke in. “Luca was just kidding around. Right, Luca?”

“That’s right . . .”

“Do us this favor, go to the office, and issue this report.”

“Happy to do it!” Ciro reiterated. “We love you, Tatià, and we feel the same about that loser Corrado. Now, let Luca finish his Sambuca, then we’ll head over to the office and take care of everything . . .”

Luca drained off his glass and then reached for his wallet to settle up.

“No, Luca, it’s on the house,” Tatiana said, calmer now and sorry for the outburst she’d just unleashed. “And excuse me. I’m just a little bit on edge.”

Luca took the insurance receipt and with his partner walked out of the bar.

Tatiana crossed her arms and leaned against the espresso machine. In silence, Barbara finished her tea. Only then did she realize that the Russian woman was weeping. “Tatiana!” And she ran around behind the counter. “No, Tatiana, no.”

Instead of calming her down, the bookseller’s embrace had the opposite effect. Tatiana released the brakes and subsided into a river of tears. Her knees gave way beneath her and she fell to the floor. She hung there, supported by her friend’s arms, like a rag tossed by the wind.

“My friend . . . you’ll see, we’ll find him. You’ll see.”

“No, Barbara, no,” she replied through her sobs. “I know it. I can feel it. Corrado is dead. He’s dead!”

CHIARA AND ROCCO WERE SITTING ON THE BED. CATERINA was sitting in a swivel chair at the girl’s desk, which was covered with photographs and CDs. At the door, Giuliana was looking at her daughter with such intensity that seemed to be trying to transmit nothing but positive thoughts and a lust for life to her. But Chiara instead was distracted by the landscape outside the window. Pale and serious, she had her knees pulled up to her chest, her chin resting atop them. Night had fallen, and the only light illuminating the bedroom was the lamp on the nightstand, shaped like a hot-air balloon.

“Can I get you anything?”

Chiara started clutching at her knees with an obsessive rhythm.

“No, Signora, grazie,” Rocco replied. But Giuliana wouldn’t leave.

“A cup of tea?” the woman asked the deputy inspector.

“Grazie, Signora, nothing, really.”

“Mamma, they don’t want anything, please!” Chiara said in a faint voice. Giuliana lowered her head and left the room, closing the door behind her.

“Jesus, what a pain in the ass!” Chiara blurted.

Rocco looked at Caterina. Then at the girl again. “You’re a bit of a wreck . . .”

Chiara didn’t answer. She kept looking out the window.

“It’s normal for your mother to worry, you know that, right?”

“She just keeps hassling me! It’s all she knows how to do.”

“That’s her job,” said Rocco.

Chiara smiled. “Right.”

There was a book in French on the bed. A book of fairy tales. Rocco picked it up. “Are you reading this?”