“What a pain in the ass!” The bookseller huffed in annoyance. Where were all the detectives and inspectors that she had devoured in years of bookish cannibalism now that she needed them and their insights? “Here, I have it! Tell him this: ‘My husband and I are celebrating our second anniversary. You and your girlfriend are officially invited over to dinner tonight!’”

Tatiana thought it over. “Then what if he asks me, ‘What girlfriend?’”

“Then you look him in the eye and you say: ‘The one you’ve had staying in your apartment since you got back from your mysterious trip! I want to meet her!’ And this is important, watch his reaction carefully. If he touches his nose, if he looks away, if he drops his eyes or avoids the subject, then you can be sure he’s lying!”

It seemed like a good tactic. Clear, direct, unequivocal. “You think?”

“I saw it on a television series, a guy who could uncover lies just by observing people’s facial expressions! You’ll see, he’ll smile and thank you and he’ll say: ‘Of course, what’s-her-name and I would be delighted to come!’ And you will have discovered the truth!”

“Then that’s what it is.”

“What is?” asked the bookseller, placing a euro on the counter.

“That’s why he’s so pensive and always seems to have his head in the clouds. That’s what he’s hiding. A woman!”

“You see?” And with a smile, Barbara went back to her bookshop.

A woman. Corrado had a woman. Tatiana clenched her teeth, but she couldn’t keep a solitary tear from sliding down her cheek.

ROCCO SCHIAVONE WAS SITTING AT THE USUAL CAFÉ TABLE on Piazza Chanoux, before the delicious breakfast that Ettore had just brought him. The air was sparkling, the meadows were emerald green, and the snow that just a few days earlier had fallen in the city had now fled the valley, taking refuge high on the peaks. The sun was shining high above in the sky. Its rays caressed the building and the mountains that wedged Aosta in like a picture frame. A May morning, the weather so lovely that all the tables were crowded. The customers were all beaming happily, some of them luxuriating in the luminous slaps of sunlight, sprawled back in their chairs with their eyes closed. It looked like a lazy Sunday morning. The time had not yet come to doff their winter jackets, but their bones were starting to suck in the warmth. Rocco looked down at his feet. He smiled down at this most recent pair of Clarks desert boots, which might now have a reasonable hope of surviving much longer than the other twelve pairs that had been destroyed in little more than eight months.