He led me through the hall and down a corridor lined with photos. They weren’t the kind Greg and I have—had—on our walls, improvised patchworks of snapshots showing us at different stages of our lives, but properly framed portraits. I caught glimpses as I passed: there she was, white flesh glowing above a low black dress; there she was again, hair swept up and a tiny smile on her lips. The kitchen was enormous, glinting with appliances; double doors leading out into the garden flooded it with light.

“Black coffee?” He was filling the kettle.

“White,” I said. “So, you had no idea about Greg—my husband?”

“Why would we?”

“What do you mean?”

“The point of a secret affair is that it’s secret.” I was getting very tired of this phrase. “Milena liked secrets.” He scooped ground coffee into a cafetière. “It was what she was good at, secrets, gossip, rumor.”

“So it wasn’t a surprise?”

“Not really. The dying was, of course.”

“What about your father?”

“I don’t know. Didn’t ask. Here, coffee. Help yourself to milk.”

I splashed in some milk and took a sip. It was strong enough to make me gasp. “So you’re not really sure?”

For the first time a flash of interest, no, intense curiosity, crossed his face. His eyes narrowed slightly. “They died together,” he said. “That’s pretty intimate.”

“Yes.”

“So what do you mean?”

“I mean, there’s nothing you’ve found that shows your stepmother knew Greg?”

“I haven’t looked. Why should I?”

“And your father?”

“My father?” He raised his eyebrows sardonically. “Dad’s been working very hard since she died. He’s been busy.”

“I see.”

“You probably don’t,” he said.

“I guess not.” I sighed and put down my cup, then stood up. “Thanks, Silvio.” I wanted to put my hand on his shoulder, tell him he’d be OK, but I didn’t think he’d appreciate that.

“You’re not what I’d expected,” he said, at the front door.

“What you expected?”

“Of my stepmother’s lover’s wife.”

“It sounds like you’re making fun of me,” I said.

Suddenly he flushed and seemed younger. “I didn’t mean that,” he said.

A thought struck before I walked away. “What was she like as a stepmother?”

I thought he would shrug or say something sarcastic, but he went red and muttered something.

“I imagine she wasn’t normal stepmother material,” I said.

“You shouldn’t have come here,” he said. “It’s none of your business.”

He pushed the door shut so abruptly I had to step back quickly so my foot didn’t get caught.

Chapter Seven