“It broke my mamma. For years, she was—like an empty shell. I’m not saying that is what Sofia is like, of course. But from my perspective, as a child, I never had the mamma I expected. I never knew what I could depend on her for. And that changed me.”

When Antonia finishes speaking, her mouth retreats into a small thin line and her face looks bare, defiant.

The aftermath echoes.

Before he realizes what he is doing, Saul is halfway across the kitchen to clasp Antonia’s hands in his, to bury his face in her hair. He stops himself mid-step. There is an unspoken boundary there.

In Antonia’s mind, she steps across the kitchen to meet Saul halfway. They embrace: her face against his sweater, the branches of his arms a hollow to hide in.

—

Saul cannot sleep that night. He turns over and over on the mattress Antonia and Paolo have laid out for him and Sofia on the living room floor. Antonia and Paolo are sleeping in their own room, the door cracked open. Julia and Robbie are asleep in Robbie’s room. Above Saul, there is a crack winding out from the light fixture in the center of the ceiling. All is quiet.

He cannot stop thinking about Antonia’s papa. He understands the violence inherent in the work he does. He perpetrates that violence. But how could they have killed one of their own? How could they have deprived Antonia of a father? How could Joey Colicchio have gone on afterward? It was the pragmatic thing to do—Saul understands this. It was the path of least conflict, least bloodshed, least upheaval. But how, Saul wonders, could Joey have dragged himself out of bed every day, knowing his best friend had been killed—no, he reminds himself, disappeared, they don’t say killed—and how could Joey dress, and leave his home, and stand up all day under the crushing weight of knowing what had happened to Carlo—what he had done to Carlo? This is why Sofia had lied, he realizes. She had known Saul would have to do his job either way. She didn’t want him to change the way he thought of Joey.

“Sofia,” Saul whispers finally, unable to stand the snarl of his own thoughts any longer. “Sofia?”

Sofia turns. She has been sound asleep. “What,” she murmurs. Saul is overcome with tenderness for her sleep-creased face, the way one of her arms reaches for him, unfolding from beneath the sheets. Her hand moving against his shoulder raises quick goosebumps. Saul sighs. He doesn’t want to ruin her night, her rest. But he is bursting with unanswerable questions.

“Sofia, Antonia told me how her papa died today.” Saul is whispering as quietly as he can. He has no interest in anyone else overhearing.

Sofia raises herself up on one elbow. “I told you that, didn’t I?”