Another piece of the puzzle now falls into place. When the Farzats were first noticed and investigated by the NOPD, we passed on information to Homeland Security, who told us the family had been thoroughly vetted and weren’t considered a terrorist threat.

Of course they weren’t a threat. Ibrahim was working for us—was one of the good guys. And Crescent Care, I’ve come to believe, really was an honest charity. It just found itself tangled up with some less-than-honest guys.

Rima sighs. “But my husband was stubborn. He said with all its faults, this country was a good place, and he would help to make it an even better place … and for his troubles … he was murdered. Brutally murdered.”

I say, “And when I came up to you … ”

“I didn’t know what to think. Were you FBI, sniffing around? Were you part of that Needham man’s gang, looking to harm me? So I described you to my great-uncle, and when you showed up … ”

“He thought he was protecting you,” I say.

“Yes, and now, he is in hiding. Afraid you will have him arrested.”

Out over the dark and flat waters of Lake Pontchartrain comes the flicker-flicker of lightning tearing through the thick gray shapes.

I say, “Tell him I am sorry, as well, and tell him he is safe from me.”

The grumble of thunder reaches us. Rima laughs bitterly.

“Safe? Will we ever be safe?”

I wish I knew the answer.

I really do.

CHAPTER 92

I catch a cab back to my home in Tremé, and find Vanessa sleeping on the couch, and no Marlene. The television is set to Turner Classic Movies, an old black-and-white film featuring Spencer Tracy and Katharine Hepburn, and I look down at her sweet sleeping face.

Most times I’ve seen her in these past several days, that perfect face with the blond hair has been scared, angry, or frustrated. But now, even after surviving leaving her abusive husband and a terrorist attack, she is sleeping with the bliss of happiness and love.

I want to stand and just watch her, but instead, I go into the kitchen and get to work.

She wakes up just as I’m plating our meal for the evening: omelets made with diced mushrooms, smoked bacon pieces, Gruyere, and sharp cheddar, complemented by split baguettes heated on a griddle and dripping with butter, and French-press coffee and freshly squeezed orange juice.

She sits across from me and takes a bite, rolls her eyes in pleasure. “My dear Caleb … if you keep on cooking like this for me, you’ll need to roll me out the door.”

Maybe it’s the look of pleasure on her face, or the raw delight in being alive and with this beautiful woman on this cloudy and ill-fated day, but without hesitation I say, “I’ll cook for you as long as you wish … forever, if you’d let me.”