1

  Greta recognized the place as soon as she turned onto the dirt road. She had been held prisoner there for less than three days. Or that could have happened in another incarnation, in another century. Or to another person entirely. The memory no longer felt like hers.

  She parked along the side of the house and took in the countless plant pots. She hadn't noticed them before. Getting out of the car, she walked along the row looking for the succulents. She passed cacti, lavender, rosemary, and basil until she reached her destination. She lifted the middle pot from among seven succulents, retrieved the key, and set the pot back in place.

  She left the car in the spot once occupied by a strange man's Jeep, in a past life. She had planned to wait for her friends with homemade pizza and salads. Lately, though, she lost the will before even beginning any task. So she had stopped at a bakery to pick up some pastries and sweets. At least she could manage a pot of coffee.

  She had barely opened the door when she felt the urge to look out at the backyard, stretching away until it dissolved into the woodland. She remembered Daros pulling the brim of his cap down and walking into the trees without looking back. Now he was just another ghost in a life made of absences.

  She left her shopping on the marble counter and glanced down the corridor toward the bedroom where she had slept. The door was open, and Greta walked slowly to the room. The bed had fresh sheets, and the scent was still lavender. She settled on the light knitted bedspread and lay staring at the ceiling, motionless. When she shifted her gaze to her ankle, she could almost see a shackle closing there. A faint smile crossed her lips.

  She had imagined that was the darkest point of her life at the time. She had no idea that was only the first bend. There was still so much light left to go out.

  2

  The couple already knew the professor had arrived at the farm before they even parked behind the sedan. The smell of fresh coffee hung in the air, inviting. Inácio took charge of unloading the bags while Lurdes freed Lenin from his seatbelt and hurried into the house to embrace her new friend.

  Settled in a sun lounger, Greta smiled when she saw the dog launching himself in her direction, the pool reflecting the late afternoon light behind him. She hugged Lenin and ran her short nails gently through his coat. She tried to conjure a little happiness when she saw Lurdes approaching.

  "Hi, Lurdes. There are pastries in all sorts of flavors, including spinach — much to Inácio's despair. And there's cake. And I made coffee."

  That was all she managed to say before her vision blurred with tears. She curled into herself, covered her face, and wept.

  The judge dragged another chair alongside hers. She sat beside the professor and pulled her into a tight embrace.

  3

  "How is she?" Inácio asked as soon as his wife came inside.

  "A little better. But there's not much better to get to when your world collapses like that."

  Lurdes told him that Greta had resigned. She had grown tired of the pitying looks, the whispered conversations in the hallways. Some of the students caught up in the harassment scheme would even turn and walk the other way when they crossed her path. All the professor wanted was a chance to reclaim a little normalcy — a distant dream now.

  "Did you tell her the gossip only lasts until the next piece of gossip? Until the next scandal or the next betrayal? Or until someone dies too young?" Inácio probed.

  "Yes. But it's not just that, love. You know what a survivor's life is like: an endless sea of broken pieces."

  Lurdes thought about the way Greta always rushed to look away. She knew that after a fall, most people don't even know which piece to pick up from the floor first. Everyone assumes surviving is a happy ending. Done. Over. Next. Everyone forgets that surviving is like suffering a serious accident, like losing your mobility. You have to relearn how to walk, how to feel, how to breathe. Sometimes you even have to remember who you are.

  "Yeah." Inácio glanced at the professor through the open door to the lawn. "We took a long time to recover ourselves. And only God knows how much road is still ahead. I'll go talk to her."

  He pulled his wife close by the waist and kissed her on the forehead.

  "You do that. You're good at conversation. Take a beer or some wine. It might help. And — hon?"

  Inácio stopped mid-stride.

  "Take some pastries with you, some sweets. Food softens the effect of the alcohol."

  "Yes, ma'am."

  The detective opened one of the boxes and assessed the options. He chose some small tarts with a filling too green for his taste, and some mini pizzas, transferring everything onto the tray Lurdes had handed him.

  4

  Lenin came back with the ball and sat beside Greta's chair. She had been starting to think the creature would never tire. But now he was showing signs of contentment. His paws were more relaxed, loose. His tongue hung out and his look was one of mission accomplished.

  "Don't be fooled, I’s not over yet," Inácio said from behind her, crossing the lawn toward the pool. "He only pretends to be tired to give us hope, the rascal. Wait a bit and he'll be ready for another round."

  "Yes, I was starting to suspect as much."

  Inácio settled into a nearby sun lounger and set the bottle of wine on the ground, fishing the corkscrew from his pocket. Lurdes had suggested a Chardonnay, as it tended to be Greta's choice when the two of them went out to dinner.

  While he poured the glasses, the man thought about how to start a conversation without sounding too paternal or sentimental. Fortunately, he didn't have to say anything.

  "Do you think Daros will ever come to collect Lenin?" Greta asked, a drowsy tone in her voice.

  "He sent a message last week saying he was ready to take the creature back. Can you believe it?"

  "No. I don't think I know Daros as well as I thought, after all. When are you handing the dog over?"

  "On the twelfth of never. I also told him he could go to hell if he insisted on that ridiculous idea."

  She let out a loud laugh for the first time in months. Then she ran her hand through Lenin's coat as he dozed beside the chair. She took a sip of wine before asking:

  "How do you do it? How do you keep your good humor after what happened to your son, after all the terrible things you've seen on the job? After so much... suffering. How do you keep the light on?"

  The author's narrative has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

  Inácio looked toward the woodland at the far end of the lawn. Then at the watercolor sky of the late afternoon. He confided that it hadn't always been this way. There had been a time when he too had believed he would never get back up from the fall.

  5

  When he recognized his son's childhood friend at the cemetery, he began following him in his free time. He hadn't realized it then, but he had simply replaced the obsession with tracking Fernando's killer with the obsession of finding out who had done away with the bastard.

  After analyzing countless hours of street footage from Xangri-lá, the town where the killer had supposedly committed suicide, he noticed a figure in a cap moving back and forth across the area.

  The figure didn't seem to have a destination or any particular intention in mind. He just moved. Inácio made several screenshots of the suspect and studied them for months, unable to determine his identity. All he knew was that the person was young and tall. He also had the kind of build that comes from physical training, but not the kind done in a gym.

  From a distance, he took a few photographs of the young man at the cemetery. He placed them beside the capped figure when he got home, and it was an immediate match: same physical build, same features on the lower half of the face. Fernando's killer hadn't felt remorse, after all.

  Inácio continued following Daros for some time. There wasn't much to follow. The boy had no life to speak of, let alone friends. The only person he visited was his grandfather. He went from home to university, from university to home. Sometimes he stopped at a supermarket or visited the cemetery, and that was all.

  One evening, Inácio waited for his son's friend at the entrance of the narrow building where the young man lived. The minimalism of the structure was striking, its clean geometry cutting against a sky of pink clouds over Menino Deus. The side balconies, one per floor, stacked like concrete steps. All seven floors also had front balconies, weathered green by the plants that welcomed the street's light. The mirrored windows reflected the outside world without revealing the one within, which suited that strange boy very well.

  Inácio was leaning against the wall with one leg when the young man finally appeared in the entrance hall carrying two bags of groceries. He recognized Fernando's father immediately, but concealed his understanding moments later, a mask of indifference settling over his face. He greeted the man with a brief nod of his head before reaching the building gate, inserting his key into the lock.

  "Could we talk for a bit?" the officer asked the new arrival.

  The young man considered his options in silence. He held Inácio's gaze for a moment, then turned to face the street. His expression wasn't easy to read, but it seemed to Inácio that all of the boy's looks were looks of farewell. Of the street, of anonymity, perhaps of freedom.

  "Daros Fischer, isn't it? I remember you taking the whole house apart with Fernando. I'm Inácio, his father."

  Daros puffed out his cheeks and deflated them slowly before nodding in silence. It made him look even younger, far more alone.

  "I brought some beers," Inácio held up the bag containing a cold six-pack. "It won't take long."

  Defeated, Daros held the metal gate open and gestured for the other man to follow. Two meters later, he did the same with the building's heavy door. He said nothing as he was followed along the wide corridor to the lift. He only pressed the button for the third floor, then stood staring at the lift ceiling until they arrived.

  Opening the door to one of only two apartments on the floor, Daros invited the unexpected visitor in with a wave. He pointed to the sofa and went to the open-plan kitchen, where he rehearsed the motion of putting the shopping away before quickly abandoning the idea. Now that he was about to go to prison, organizing provisions was a superficial and pointless gesture.

  The young man's distress was plain to Inácio, seated on the sofa. The place had only basic furniture, but the kitchen was very well equipped. To put an end to the discomfort once and for all, the visitor broke the silence.

  "If you're so afraid of being arrested, boy, why not just kill me? I have no idea who trained you, but—"

  "The French. Then the Germans," Daros recited, barely above a whisper.

  Inácio waited for the young man to laugh, but it didn't happen. Thinking about it, the story made sense. He certainly hadn't learned those tricks at university.

  "Right. The thing is, a man who can get past security at a house like that and leave a crime scene cleaner than a surgeon's blade before the first cut could kill me any time, anywhere."

  The other let out a long sigh before answering.

  "No. I could not."

  Daros had his head down, searching for something invisible on the floor. He had braced himself for caution, not for this sadness. Still, Inácio pressed on:

  "And why not?"

  The answer was obvious enough to Daros. The seed of it had been planted on one of the many afternoons he had shared with Fernando. That particular one, Daros was making elaborate plans to be a scientist or a firefighter when he grew up — or both. The other listened closely, nodding from time to time to signal his approval. When it was his turn to speak, he said his plan was simple. Fernando wanted to grow up and be exactly like his father, not an inch different. His father was a real-life hero, so Fernando wanted to help people in exactly the same way.

  The image of his friend saying that with a faraway look still burned in Daros's chest. So when he raised his head toward the man seated on the sofa, the gleam of rising tears was visible.

  "Because Fernando loved you, sir. You were his whole world. I thought we were going to study engineering together. Build things, I don't know. But he wanted to join the police force. He wanted to be like you."

  This time it was Inácio's composure that broke. The sudden mention of his son dispersed the fog of pain that had threatened to drag him into the vicious mud of grief for all those long years. It was horrible for him to admit, but he had sought every possible way not to think about his dead son. First, he drank until his mind was too tired to think of anything. Realizing the trap of it, he buried himself in unofficial investigations. When he recognized Daros at the cemetery, the memories he had fought so hard to hide in the darkest corner of his mind found their way home. And so he had been Fernando's hero? What kind of hero isn't there when his son needs him most? Inácio hid his face in his hands and cried.

  He saw the ultrasound image of the child, the classic naked baby photos, Fernando's walker making its way across the house with his son's little body lurching inside it. He cried in a way he had been unable to cry at his boy's burial. He cried in a way he hadn't been able to cry when he heard Lurdes's muffled sobs in the night. He simply let the shadows of suffering find the light of day at last. Wasn't that what he had taught his son? That the monster under the bed dies of fright at the smallest bit of light?

  He was still crying when Daros moved silently closer and sat beside him on the sofa. The young man placed a hesitant hand on the grieving father's back and quickly withdrew it. He took two cans of beer from the bag the man had brought and opened one, resting it gently against Inácio's hand. Then he drank a few sips of his own, waiting patiently. He wiped the tear that had run down his own face with the back of his hand.

  The two of them sat there, lost in thought, for a long while. When Inácio crushed the empty can and gestured for another, Daros took the chance to ask:

  "How did you find me?"

  Inácio cleared his throat, ran his large hands over his face, and looked around as though he had forgotten where he was. He took a long sip before answering.

  "It wasn't easy, I can tell you that. It was a real pain in the arse, actually. You're like a bloody ghost. I imagine you have the French to thank for that."

  "And the Germans."

  Inácio looked at the boy, unsure if he was joking. This time, he was. After laughing until they were spent, the visitor added:

  "Yeah. And the bloody Germans too, of course."

  The two finished their beers at almost the same time, and Daros opened two more. He wasn't sure what to say, or what to expect. He decided to make the most of the drink and the freedom while they lasted. When Fernando's father stood up, the young man braced for the worst. But the visitor only asked if he could use the bathroom, and Daros pointed down a short corridor that led to a bathroom and the only bedroom. He stood and walked to the balcony, taking in the unbarred view of the street. It might be the last time.

  The officer came back to the living room with no sign of wanting to sit again. He had splashed water on his face and looked better for it. He glanced around, checking that everything was in order. Once a cop, always a cop. Turning back to the sky, which had darkened quickly, Daros wanted to know:

  "What now?"

  "Well, now I'll be on my way."

  "And the case? What happens to it?"

  "It stays as it is." Inácio moved slowly toward the young man at the window. "Forensics did an excellent job. It was a suicide, after all."

  Daros couldn't believe what he had just heard. He studied the man's face for anything suspicious. A nervous tic, any sign of anxiety or deception. He found nothing. Fernando's father extended his hand, which Daros shook without any strength at all.

  When the man opened the door to leave, Daros ran to it and closed it again. The visitor looked at him, more intrigued than surprised. He waited.

  "If you didn't come here to arrest me, why did you come?"

  The look Inácio returned was the kind capable of reaching through flesh until it found the soul.

  "I came to say thank you. I needed that. They call it closure, don't they? Thank you for your time too, for letting me in. And for drinking with me."

  Receiving no reply, he opened the door again. He walked toward the lift, watched by a Daros frozen in the doorway, struck dumb with shock.

  "Oh!" He stopped, turning back to the young man. "Come and have dinner with Lurdes and me sometime."

  "I don't even know where you live," Daros said, barely audible, as though apologizing.

  "But you'll find out. I have faith in that training of yours."