ELENA

Inside, the house was too quiet. No staff crossing the front room, no radio in the kitchen, none of the noise a house like this used to carry. Somebody had turned the whole place down so a dying man could sleep in it.

I went for the stairs before I'd even set my bag down. My whole body had been pointed at those stairs since the plane. But Rachele got in front of me, quick, her hand flat on my arm.

"Not yet," she said. "He's sleeping."

"I'll be quiet. I just want to see him."

"Elena. ...