His face showed no reaction. He didn't deny it or ask me what I meant. For a good thirty seconds, he said nothing at all. If I didn't know better, I might have believed he hadn't heard a word I said. He took a quick sip and rolled the bottle between his hands before setting it down on the floor between his feet. Again I tensed, my hand close to the Luger stuck in my waistband, but Michael stayed seated, elbows on knees, shoulders slightly hunched. His expression was difficult to read, but there was no surprise in it. Nor anger.

He said, "First time we met, after you left, I said to myself: 'A man like that, who's survived what he's survived—he's no ordinary man. If anyone can discover the truth, it is he.'" His eyes found mine. They were hard eyes, but they did not look cruel. The eyes of a man who's killed, yes, but not the eyes of a murderer. "What gave me away?"

"The flowers."

"Flowers," he said, drawing out the word like he was rolling it on his tongue, exploring the taste it evoked.

"The flowers you left on the grave," I said.

He gave an almost imperceptible nod. "What made you think I was the one who left them?"

"I happened to glance to one side and saw Talia's grave. I read the inscription. It was then that I learned she hadn't died during the prison raid like I'd originally thought, but a few days after the murders of Esther and Willie. I also learned that you had a son. Judah. A good name."

His mouth twitched into a shadow of a smile. "Judah Maccabee. The ultimate Jewish warrior."

"Like you."

Michael shrugged, the smile gone from his lips. "I did my part, as best I could." Like me, he was uncomfortable with being praised for his prowess in war.

All of a sudden, I was awash in grief. I had kept it at bay over these past few days, even as my disjointed suspicions coalesced into a harsh, incontrovertible truth. I had clung to a desperate hope that Michael would deny his guilt, that he would somehow convince me he was not a murderer.

That hope was dashed now. This man, whom I had begun to think of as a friend, as a brother of sorts, was lost to me. And his loss was like a gaping wound in the center of my body.

I inhaled deeply, taking a moment to collect myself. "My first thought was that Judah was dead. There are pictures of Talia on the walls of your apartment, but none of your son. You also didn't mention him when I spoke of my daughters. Perhaps his memory was too painful for you, I thought. Perhaps that was why you had removed all traces of him from your home."