I turn the page instead and work backward and what I see is pain. His pain. Poured into this book. Sketches of his sister. Sketches of the woman I’d seen the last time. On one page, there’s a photo stuck inside, and it’s Santiago, Mercedes, and another boy. They must be in their teens. Santiago wears the expression I’ve come to know even then on his young face. He’s too young to look like that. But the other boy is smiling wide, and he has one arm around Santiago and the other around a pre-teen Mercedes. She’s smiling too, and you can already see the beauty she will become.

The two of them are wearing swimsuits, but Santiago is fully dressed in a school uniform. His hair falls into his eyes, and it’s strange to see him like this, without the ink that is so much a part of him. That is the only way I really know him.

He’s sketched the photo, but he’s changed just one thing. He’s smudged out half of his face. I touch the shadow there, smear the pencil, and something catches in my throat. What must it be like for him? What must it have been to survive the fire only to find yourself not yourself? To feel you're better served to wear a skull for a face.

I take a deep breath in and force my gaze away from his. The other boy must be Leandro, his brother. I wonder if they were close. Strange that we’ve been married for three months, and there’s still so much I don’t know about my husband.

I take a breath in and close the book. It’s late, and I need to get some sleep, but I want to ask him about the book, so I take it with me up to his bedroom, not mine, and I lie down in his bed and put the book on the pillow beside me. I want him to know I’m not hiding it. And when I close my eyes, I sleep.

“Ivy,” a voice calls. Someone gives me a shake.

I groan, rolling away.

“Ivy, dear, Mrs. Van Der Smit will be expecting you soon. It’s almost two o’clock.”

I blink, rub my eyes and turn to find Antonia standing over me. “What?” I look over at the other side of the bed. It’s empty. The book right where I left it.

He never came home.

“The driver will take you to Mrs. Van Der Smit’s house in less than half an hour.”

“Oh.” I sit up and run a hand through my hair. “Where’s Santiago?”

“He called earlier to ask me to arrange a driver for you.”

“He didn’t come home?”

“No, I’m afraid not.”

“Do you know where he is?”