1

  The first thing he noticed when waking up was the quietness. He threw the sheet aside and opened the bedroom window to let the sunny morning in. The green surrounding the property still had the scent of dew. He looked for his sneakers under the bed and put on shorts with a T-shirt. He didn't let himself be fooled by the landscape. He was at the beach, not in the countryside.

  The living room and kitchen awaited him empty. The aroma of coffee filled the air. He peeked up the stairs to the second floor, but there was no sign of Greta.

  Daros went to the fridge to see what there was to eat. The pizza box was there, carefully stored and with one slice missing. A small but expressive detail. It meant she knew he was in the house and hadn't been startled by his presence. More than that, she'd saved the food he'd brought. He didn't know if Greta would maintain the hostile silence, but if she did, that wouldn't be a problem. It's not like he was skilled at maintaining social conversations for long.

  He put two slices in the microwave and served himself a cup of coffee. While eating, he reflected on where to go next. He used to get restless within four walls when he didn't have a clear action plan. When a clandestine mission or a real work project ended, it was common for the feeling of being alive to drain from him. He barely knew how to behave in that limbo between one action and another. So he used to occupy himself with fixing something or practicing some new skill.

  He traced a mental map of the region and decided a hike would do him good. He hadn't even crossed the yard when he noticed the gate was open. The Jeep remained parked in front of the house. He hoped Greta hadn't gone too far. They still needed to talk about the need for her to avoid public places if she wanted to guarantee anonymity.

  He pushed the wooden gate as he passed. He didn't feel comfortable leaving and abandoning the woman without protection. On the other hand, trail hiking in the middle of the woods always cleared his thoughts. It was evident he was on a mission again. But he needed to talk to Greta first to determine what it was. After stretching his muscles, he programmed himself to run to Guaiuba beach. It was a very beautiful spot to see the sea, and almost always deserted at that time of year.

  The smell of the sea announced itself even from a distance. Some years ago, Daros had bought a house near Freiburg, Germany. There he thought about retiring in ten years or something like that. There he could live. At that moment, however, he wondered if it had been the best choice. Maybe he should stay by the ocean.

  He didn't find a trail to the water, but it was easy to guide himself by the maritime smell. He changed his mind when he realized the trail became too steep. Better to go around and head to Vila beach. From there he could call some app and go to a more urban area after taking a sea bath. He didn't want to keep using the Jeep to go back and forth. He had to find alternative transportation.

  He reached the waiting strip of sand, the low dunes extending to the south. He first spotted the hill that embraced the beach, the army-green vegetation contrasting with the sandy, light soil. The cove opened in a smooth curve, the waves breaking in a disorderly line on the sand. On the horizon, the sea met the sky in two shades of blue.

  To the right, the fishermen's simple houses dotted the shore, some with colorful boats anchored near the sand. Movement was scarce at that time of year. Only a few locals appeared in the distance, surrendered to the rituals of daily life.

  The absence of buildings offered an almost untouched view of the beach, where time didn't rush to run. He took off his shirt and sneakers, arranging his belongings along with his phone, not far from the water, and dove in.

  At that hour the water wasn't yet warmed, so he felt cold at first. A few vigorous strokes to where the waves were born solved the problem. Beyond the breaking zone, he stopped to rest his muscles. He touched the bottom with his foot without much difficulty, and then floated on his back until his mind shut off. The world seems safer when sounds disappear. He let himself be carried by the water for a few minutes before returning to alert status.

  He decided to check on his personal items. Beside them a boy had sat down, looking directly in his direction. Interesting. Daros began swimming back to the sand to investigate.

  When he reached his things, the child didn't even move. He just looked at him with expectation. He might be selling something. He'd find out soon.

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  "Hi," he greeted.

  "Hi," the child replied.

  "Can I help you, young man?" Daros assessed the boy while shaking his head, drying his hair a bit. The child had tanned skin, large brown eyes, and very thin arms. He must be around eight or nine years old.

  "Yes, you can. Could you maybe buy... two bottles of beer for me?"

  "Isn't it a bit early to drink?" Daros winked.

  "No!" The boy laughed, covering his mouth with his small hand. You could see a tooth growing on the top. "I don't drink yet! I don't think I even want to."

  "That's a good idea. So what do you want the beers for?"

  "They're for my mom's boyfriend. I broke his beers by accident. If he finds out, he'll get mad. I get scared when he gets mad."

  Daros saw the fear in the boy's eyes and felt anger. He controlled himself not to let it show.

  "Well... I can buy the beers if you talk to me a bit. Is that okay?"

  "Okay. I just can't take too long."

  "Ah, it's a short chat. No need to worry."

  "Okay."

  "Have you told your mom that her boyfriend gets mad at you?"

  "No."

  "But you need to tell her."

  "I can't."

  "Why not?"

  The boy's eyes filled with tears and he shook his head. Daros insisted.

  "You can tell me. I won't tell anyone."

  "He's a cop. He said if I tell, he'll arrest my mom."

  Daros nodded. The urge to hunt that son of a bitch came full force. But he didn't want to risk an even greater punishment for that boy. So he opened the biggest smile he could manage.

  "Right. Let's buy those beers."

  The two walked side by side to a nearby bar, with yellow plastic tables scattered on the sand. Daros shortened his stride to match the child's pace. He entered the bar alone, bought the beers, and paid for bottles he didn't have. He asked them to reinforce the bag with another one and went to the waiting boy.

  The kid was looking curiously at something attached to the side of Daros's shorts. It was his cap. Unhooking the adjuster from the shorts' eyelet, he offered the object to the child.

  "Oh, you like the cap? If you do me a favor, you can keep it."

  The boy nodded several times in animated confirmation.

  "Tell your mom's boyfriend there's a cop who wants to talk to him about Article 136. And that the cop is waiting there at the cabins near the pizzeria. Do you think you can remember that?"

  "Yes! Cop. Article 136. Pizzeria cabins!" the boy recited cheerfully.

  "Perfect. That's it," Daros lightly messed up the child's hair, then handed him the cap.

  "Are you really a cop?"

  "Uh-huh." The lie sounded natural.

  "What kind of cop?"

  "The best kind. Your mom's boyfriend will like it." Daros winked at the boy and watched as he walked away, happy, holding the bag as if inside it was a frightened kitten.

  2

  While Daros walked away from the beach to return to the cabin, the investigation into Greta's disappearance advanced in a nearby town.

  Pablo spent the morning reviewing the motel's security footage. Unless the woman knew some disintegration spell in mid-air, she had to have left through the only access at some point. She'd arrived by Uber, but he doubted she'd left the same way. He would have seen the movement.

  The half-hour failure in the station cameras wasn't a coincidence. No way. Someone knew what they were doing. Professionals leave far fewer traces than amateurs. When they leave any. And an English teacher had no ability whatsoever to have messed with that parking lot camera.

  He concentrated on the recordings from earlier hours, starting at eleven in the morning, just to be safe. In his underwear and T-shirt, he took the opportunity to scratch his protruding belly. The flow of entrances and exits was relatively constant. Men or women cheating on their partners usually act in the morning or afternoon. These are times when they should be at work, making it less likely their absence will be noticed by their spouse. The night is territory for stray cats, those who have nowhere to return to.

  Greta had arrived alone. But she'd left inside one of those cars. Nothing prevented the woman from having slipped into some trunk, but Pablo found the idea rather ridiculous. She might be desperate, but he doubted she wanted to risk being locked in there for an indefinite time, ending up in a random place, or drawing strangers' attention. She was a frightened little bird.

  A frightened little bird who hadn't noticed anything in Torres. What changed there? When a thought has no immediate answer, insisting on it only hinders. It was better to return to the analysis.

  Uncertain what to look for, he reviewed the images once more. A silver HB20 caught his attention. That model was one of the best sellers, making the car almost common. White, black, and silver represented the colors of more than 80% of cars. That was far from a bad choice for not drawing attention.

  The driver always kept his face partially hidden under a cap brim, like someone accustomed to avoiding cameras. More importantly: he didn't seem to have company in the car. He noted the plate and sent it for analysis. He knew it would hardly lead anywhere. But it was protocol, and protocols exist for a good reason.

  He watched the footage of the man's car leaving the motel about forty minutes later. He was still alone. Or that's the impression it gave. The fucking dark windows prevented any certainty. Forty minutes was too much time to jerk off and too little time to take a nap. He ran both hands through his increasingly sparse hair, as if expecting to pull an answer from there.

  While waiting for the return on the plate, an idea began to form. The guy was good. Too good to be just a random acquaintance of the woman. There was technique there, training. The kind of person you hire to perform a specific job. An ex-military or ex-cop. Either option could be investigated. The tracing of the guy's identity would just take more time.

  Either way, one question remained unanswered: who had hired that guy?