For a few seconds I remained seated, not moving. Her jaw was clenched, her mouth pinched, her eyes unwavering, as if challenging me to call out her lie. I did not. What would be the point? I would get nothing more from her. At least not now. It didn't matter whether the suspicion I raised was justified or not. I was a stranger and I had attacked the thing she valued most: her family. That made me the enemy.

I stood up. She followed me with her eyes. They were hard and cold as freezing metal. I forced myself to meet them.

"I'm sorry if I hurt you," I said.

Her expression did not change. She did not want my apology. She wanted no more words out of me. "Just leave. Just go."

On the street outside her building, I paused to light a cigarette. I wasn't feeling too proud of myself, even though I had only done my job, what I knew I would do once I stepped over Natalie Davidson's threshold. I told myself I'd not caused her pain for nothing. I'd learned some valuable things. I'd learned that Esther Grunewald had had a romantic relationship and that the idea of Alon Davidson having an affair with her was not unthinkable to his wife. Crossing the street, I glanced back and saw Natalie standing at her window, peering down at me. I couldn't read her expression. Seeing my upturned face, she drew the curtain.

I turned west on Bograshov, walked slowly past London Square, and swung south at the coastline, my shoes thudding on the narrow promenade with the sea to my right. The laughter of beachgoers mingled with the crash of waves on the shore, pierced now and then by the bellows of ice-cream vendors hawking their melting wares. Gulls swooped overhead like airplanes on a bombing raid.

I found a table at a seaside café, grabbed a beer and a grilled cheese toast, and sat watching the sea reflecting the softened afternoon sun and the people bathing in the surf. A radio behind the bar was playing something with plenty of violin and cello. It sounded like German music. Melodramatic and dark and foreboding.

At a nearby table, a bearded man with a missing arm sat reading a slim book. He laid the volume on the table whenever he needed to flip pages, before picking it up in his remaining hand to resume reading. I wondered when and how he'd lost his arm. Was it in Europe? During Israel's War of Independence? Or another calamity? There had been so many of them these past ten years. I had a sudden urge to walk over to him, introduce myself, and ask him what had happened.

I didn't. Instead, I gulped the last of the beer and wolfed down the remains of the toast. Neither tasted very good, but I wasn't in the habit of throwing away food.