“You’re convinced we will?”

She hesitates, perhaps a moment too long. “I think so, yes.”

Nico glances at her, his face creased with skepticism. “And you? How was your day?”

“Feels like I spent much of it chasing my own tail. Speaking of tails, I reviewed the rat necropsy with Justine today.”

“The rat that was immune to the plague?”

“Yes. Justine says those rats they found at the park have never been seen in Italy.”

“So where do they come from?”

Alana shakes her head. “Justine doesn’t know. She’s never seen them anywhere before.”

The traffic comes to a stop. He turns to her with a despondent look. “This outbreak . . .”

“I know. It’s not following the usual rules of epidemiology, is it?”

“Everything is wrong about it, Alana. Everything.”

They lapse into silence for a few minutes, before Alana finally says, “I accompanied the WHO team door-to-door on their ring prophylaxis outreach this morning. I wanted to get a sense of the logistics.”

“How was it?”

“Similar to your experience in the hospital. Dread and distrust everywhere. Some people were too afraid to answer the door, even though we could see they were home. Others had endless questions for us. And the anger and blame. You wouldn’t believe it.”

“Blame? Who?”

“The politicians, the government, and the WHO for not doing more. Especially us doctors. And a lot of people still blame Islamic extremists—all Muslims—for the outbreak.”

“Idioti.”

“One of the nurses with us was born here but she’s ethnically Indian. A few people slammed the door in her face. One woman screamed at her to ‘stop poisoning real Italians!’ ” Alana sighs. “At this rate, there are going to be other victims of racial violence. Like the Turkish teen who was almost killed.”

“You didn’t hear?”

“Hear what?”

“The boy, he died this afternoon from the head injury.”

The guilt stabs. She looks away and distracts herself by studying the shoreline. Dark, low-hanging clouds now extend to the horizon and threaten rainfall. Even in the haze, the rolling hills and rocky beaches remind her of somewhere else—a vague childhood recollection of a family vacation somewhere along the Gulf Coast during much happier times.

They reach Bogliasco, and Nico turns into Zanetti’s driveway. The developer isn’t waiting outside this time. Nico has to ring the doorbell twice before Zanetti finally answers. Instead of a dark suit, he wears a bathrobe and pajamas, despite the hour. He makes no excuse for his wife’s absence, saying only that “she is gone.”

Inside, in the sunken den, Zanetti refills his stemless wineglass from an open bottle of red and pours two more glasses. Alana’s stomach flip-flops at the sight of it. Nico shakes his head, too. Zanetti drops onto the couch facing the ocean, while they remain standing.

“We need to know about the construction site, Marcello,” Alana says.

“The truth this time!” Nico adds.

“finita!” Zanetti glances to Alana. “There is no more site. It is totally worthless. Just like me!”