“I need a favor,” I whisper, once we’ve made it into the relative privacy of a long alley of sky-high cypress trees.

“Ah.” He looks down, walking on with me. “Sure. Shoot.”

I swallow hard, bloodied hands gumming into my jean pockets. “Before I ask, just know that you can say no, and I’ll understand.”

His brow furrows, a smirk curving the corner of his lip. “Okay.”

“I know you sometimes organize your uncle’s files,” I say carefully.

He misses a step, avoiding a rut in the paved path. “Um … This is true. For better or for worse, I’m his bitch.”

“Can you look for a mention of someone in those files? My dad knew him, and I’m sure your uncle knows him, too. His name is Mitso Arakit.”

“Why don’t you just ask him?”

We lock eyes, and he grins crookedly.

“Fine, fine. I get it.” He blows the air from his mouth. “So, what do you know about this person? If I’m gonna spy on my uncle and all.”

A couple passes, and we go silent for several paces.

“It sounds bad if you put it that way,” I whisper. “But this person threatened my mom.”

“What?” He stops in place, and a fast walker behind us bumps into him and glares.

“He threatened my mother!” I say louder, attracting stares from the mother and two children picnicking on the grass off to our right.

He reaches toward me, as if to clap a hand over my mouth, then his. “Sorry—sorry,” he says, pulling away.

We’re both blushing hard.

“I need to know everything my dad and your uncle knew if I’m going to find her. But no one can know. It’ll spiral out of control if too many people know.” I sound paranoid, I know it, and—

“Wait.” He freezes. “Did you say, ‘If I’m going to find her’?”

“Yes,” I whisper.

“Damn.” He nods and looks out over the expansive green beside us, dotted with park visitors. We pass a shrub with a plastic bag draped atop it, and Hérrakí plucks it off, balling it up in his hand. He walks a dozen yards to throw it away, then returns to me.

“Of course I’ll help,” he says. He looks at me, shrugging off his jacket. “You know, you could have just asked over the phone.”

I rub my lips together, let my scraped hand swing down and brush the edge of his. “I know.”

He takes my tingling hand gently, so gently, and he doesn’t ask anything more.

When we reach the end of the park road, he stops me in my tracks. He takes both of my hands, fingers hovering over the hot cores of my palms. Pinpricks run up the outsides of my arms.