1

  And the son of the bitch did find out, as Inácio was now telling Greta. The woman's face was flushed with all the emotion the account had stirred in her.

  "I didn't know the details, Inácio. I'm so sorry."

  "Thank you. The thing is, I needed to tell that story to answer your question. Have you noticed that life has the same number of parts as a day?"

  He stretched an arm to grab a pastry, eating half in a single bite. It was spinach, the little thing. Inácio wouldn't admit it out loud, but that green stuff wasn't half bad. He finished chewing the other half before continuing.

  "In the morning, we're children and everything seems to stretch and last forever. The afternoon is sunny, full of friends, plans, everything and everyone we love. But it also drags when we don't know what to do with it. It's like afternoon classes — the ones that never end. Then night comes. It comes earlier for some than for others, but it always comes."

  Inácio's eyes drifted across the sky, stained purple. It was a shade very close to bruises, the purplish marks that life leaves on so many people along the way.

  "Night is the time when we start losing parts of ourselves," he raised his hands, like someone admitting defeat. "It might be a job, a marriage, a friend, a dream — but most of the time it's the death of someone. Or someones. It's a time when we've already lost too much, too many people, to go back to being who we were, or to try to become what we once wanted to be."

  He had wanted one simple thing: to be a father. He had once dreamed of a noisy house full of grandchildren running from one end to the other, Lurdes tearing her hair out and trying in vain to contain the chaos. He smiled at the imagined scene, which dissolved like a cloud, and continued.

  "That's what I call the cold night of the soul. The warmth of morning is gone, the promise of the afternoon is over. And to bear the cold — which is all that's left in the world now — everyone needs a blanket. Mine is Lurdes, Daros, Lenin. And now you, if you want to stay. But for me, the water that washes this blanket is humour. Life will keep coming at me, and I'll keep laughing in its face. I hope it tires first. And I hope you find your own blanket against the cold night one of these days."

  Greta finished her wine and extended her glass for Inácio to pour more. She looked again at the woodland spread beneath the veil of night. It was a beautiful theory, even if a sad one. She felt sorry that the cold night had come so early for her. It came for many people, in fact. A lucky few didn't start losing people and things until around fifty. For those fortunate souls, the afternoon chose to stretch on and on. She squeezed the detective's fingers, grateful for the warmth. When she spoke, her tone was lighter:

  "I didn't know an internal affairs detective earned so well. Keeping this lawn trimmed and the house immaculate must cost a pretty penny. You can't even smell the damp. Around here by the beach, that's quite hard to avoid."

  "It does cost a pretty penny, but I'm not the one paying for it. Daros handles the bills."

  "And where does he get all that money?"

  "Listen... that's one thing I've learned about him. It's better not to ask certain questions, because either I won't like the answer one bit, or I'll have to put him behind bars."

  Lurdes was making her way toward them, balancing a tray with another glass and some sweets. She called out loud enough to be heard:

  "He's lying. He'd never arrest that kid."

  Inácio let out a laugh and winked at Greta, admitting under his breath:

  "Yeah. I really wouldn't."

  2

  It had been impossible for Greta to go back to living in the house she had shared with Valério, and she had always known it would be. So she went back only to collect some clothes and books, gratefully accepting the police escort the case investigators had offered. She took no photographs or personal objects with her. Then she locked the doors and windows and never set foot on that street again.

  The rented apartment was much smaller, a reflection of who she was now. The décor was minimalist, and Greta received few visitors. Besides the sofa, the hammock, and a comfortable bed, all she needed was plenty of light spread across the rooms. No shadows. There was another reason she hadn't invested much in furniture: everywhere felt temporary now, even if she couldn't quite say why. What she did know was that she went out less and less. When she was on the street, she had the unsettling feeling of being watched or followed. She would stop at any moment, bracing for someone to approach her with bad news.

  In the February heat, Greta was reading another small passage of Drive Your Plow Over the Bones of the Dead, stretched out in the hammock on the balcony. A student had given her the book as a gift several semesters earlier, and she still hadn't finished it. For the first time since completing One Hundred Years of Solitude, she knew she had to read slowly, guided by the certainty that she wouldn't find another work like it any time soon. So she allowed herself only small sections at a time.

  Her concentration was broken by the sound of a WhatsApp message. She smiled in anticipation, imagining yet another image conveying Inácio's corrosive humour in the group he had added her to along with Lurdes and the driver. She tucked a bookmark into the page and went to the coffee table where her phone was charging.

  It wasn't a joke, but a link. And it hadn't been sent to the group, but to her alone. Greta tapped the blue line and read the news. Donaldo Santana de Castro was dead, the suspected cause suicide. The report stated that the former dean had leaped to his death from the luxury penthouse he had moved into in Pernambuco. There were no witnesses, nor any signs of forced entry or the presence of another person in the property.

  Police carried out further searches at the deceased's home in search of clues. They ended up finding a body buried in the grounds of the academic's country house. DNA tests confirmed the remains belonged to university professor Valério Galvani, missing since the previous year.

  Greta set the phone down on the table as though it were on fire. Biting her hand hard to keep from screaming, she curled into the sofa and tried to make sense of anything. Anything at all.

  How...

  All colour had drained from her face when she picked the phone back up, opened Inácio's contact and pressed call without even thinking about what she was doing. When her friend answered, instead of a greeting she launched straight in:

  Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

  "Wasn't someone we know on holiday in the Northeast recently?"

  "That's what he said," there was no alarm or concern in Inácio's voice. Someone could just as easily use that same tone to recite a fruit salad recipe.

  Greta let the phone slip against her cheek, her other hand twisting convulsively at the fabric of her shorts. She didn't even try to conceal her unease when she resumed the conversation.

  "I'm a little lost here, Inácio. What does all this mean?"

  Inácio exhaled, and you could almost picture him choosing his words on the other end of the line.

  "Well, in terms of the investigation, I don't know. The Recife police were handling the case. Now, with the developments from the country house down here in the south..."

  Inácio didn't finish the thought. Instead, he changed angle:

  "But what really matters is that you're a wealthy woman now, Greta. Once the death certificate comes through, you'll receive what's rightfully yours. The widow's inheritance and all of that."

  She didn't comment on the matter. It hadn't even occurred to her, and the money genuinely held no interest for her. She was still on medical leave from the university. Between that and her own savings, the scholarship she had received abroad would cover the following months' expenses.

  "Listen, Inácio... I know this might seem strange, but..."

  The paranoia lingered still, the certainty that someone might be listening to the conversation. Greta felt every precaution was worth taking. Better to be discreet.

  "Could you send me the contact for Fernando's childhood friend?"

  Contrary to what she had imagined, Inácio wasn't surprised. The enthusiasm was unmistakable.

  "Right away. Check your inbox. If you need legal advice, Lurdes can recommend someone good and trustworthy. Congratulations, Greta. Oh, and while I have you around..."

  He paused. Greta heard the familiar sound of paper being shuffled. Then the detective spoke again:

  "How do you say someone who is living, breathing, with five letters?"

  "Alive."

  "There we go!" he finished scribbling. "Perfect fit. Now go and celebrate, Greta. You're a free woman."

  She thanked him softly. She preferred to open her laptop to read the email rather than type on her phone. She copied the address given into the recipient field. It began with dfischer.

  She stared at the blank page like a writer with creative block. She had no idea what to say to him after so much time. So she settled for the basics: she typed "Hi" and sent it. Less than a minute passed before she received an identical greeting in return.

  Right. And what to say now? The truth, simple as that. "Can we meet?" This time the reply didn't come at the same speed.

  Restless, Greta got up from the sofa and went to the kitchen. She put water on to boil and set out a camomile teabag to settle her nerves. It had been terribly presumptuous of her to expect a meeting. She had gone almost a year without attempting to contact Daros. He had no way of knowing, but the last few months had been insane. Just a few days out of hospital had been enough to realize her life had been turned upside down. She had ceased to be a human being and had become an object of morbid curiosity — at work, among former neighbours and friends, and even for some family members.

  Watching everything change, Greta withdrew. She was like a cat, the kind that distances itself from people when it's unwell. She accepted the company of Inácio and Lurdes, or her parents from time to time, but Daros was different. While he drew her in like a magnet, he was a puzzle she couldn't solve. Her past silence served perfectly to justify his silence now. That was what they called karma.

  With the warm cup in her hands, she returned to the living room table, blew on the drink, and took a careful sip so as not to burn her tongue. There was no reply in the inbox. It was more than fair — it was deserved.

  Greta let her eyes wander across the cloudless sky beyond the window. She didn't think of herself as a vindictive person in the least. And yet the dean's death had lifted a weight from her shoulders that she hadn't even realized was there. The world was a safer place for her now, and for many other women too.

  Valério's body, on the other hand...

  Pushing the thought aside, she looked back at the laptop screen. The reply had come, after all. It contained only an address in the rural outskirts of Freiburg, Germany, and an emoji. A yellow smiley face.

  Minutes later, another message arrived. "Come whenever you like."

  She had a trip booked to England in March to begin her studies. The scholarship was for a doctoral programme in creative writing. She would have to find a way to pass through Germany. Perhaps she could go earlier.

  She picked up Drive Your Plow Over the Bones of the Dead again. She knew with certainty that she no longer needed to ration her reading. Other emotions were waiting for her out in the world..

  3

  Greta had always wanted to say at least one thing to Daros: that something he had told her had planted a dream in her. She longed to walk the streets of Freiburg in winter, the way he liked to do. She wanted to see the world through his eyes, because perhaps then she might understand a little more of who he was.

  Daros Fischer kept storms inside himself. He had loved his childhood friend in a quiet way, but so fiercely it had crossed even death. He had a rare kind of courage: the courage to feel without making a show of it, to protect without waiting for applause. And also to mask his own pain and carry on living.

  In the city centre, she was immediately drawn to a small cathedral with a large clock at its peak. It was permitted to climb to the bell tower, but not at that hour. Europe grew dark long before night arrived.

  Greta got into a taxi and showed the driver the paper with the address. As the urban landscape fell away behind her and turned into pinpoints of light, the architecture grew even more striking. She could understand what had drawn Daros to the place. More than its beauty, it was the stillness that had won him over.

  The car stopped in front of a small, very well-kept cabin. A low white fence bordered the modest garden, and the snow had been cleared from the steps leading to the door — a sign of welcome. She opened the small gate and crossed the few metres to the entrance, where no one answered her knock.

  Everything there seemed impersonal, as though it yearned for invisibility. It was precisely that absence of human warmth that painted a moving portrait of exile.

  Greta turned the handle, and the door swung open. It was no surprise that the owner of this house left it unlocked. What could a man like Daros have to fear?

  The cabin's furniture managed to be even sparser than Greta's apartment. The living room had only a nearly empty bookshelf and a table with a single chair. On the table sat a closed laptop. The shelf held only an old, yellowed envelope, addressed to a man named Michael Jones. Greta picked up the letter carefully, turning it over to see if she recognised the sender's name. She didn't. The letter had been written by a woman, Dorothy. The surname was smudged, and the handwriting was small and delicate, slightly slanted to the right. Greta placed the object back on the shelf exactly as she had found it.

  It was only then that she noticed another object on the shelf. It was a book: The Picture of Dorian Gray. The memory immediately conjured a gesture of Daros's from the last time they had been alone — his hand covering her mouth so Greta wouldn't say anything about Sibyl Vane or the ending. The smile that opened on her lips now was involuntary. She hadn't thought about it since, and if she had, she wouldn't have believed he truly intended to read it. She took the book from the shelf and leafed through it. Entire sentences had been underlined in pencil. "The only way to get rid of a temptation is to yield to it" was the first highlighted passage she came across when she randomly searched for a marking. Interesting. She closed the volume and returned it to where it had been.

  Daros couldn't be home. If he were, he would have appeared by now through one of the three closed doors she concluded were two bedrooms and a bathroom. The last room, the kitchen, was completely different from the living room. The space was brightly lit and had an enormous worktop. Greta moved closer to investigate what the dozens of small jars arranged along the wall contained. They were spices with very clear labels. White pepper, black pepper, sweet paprika, smoked paprika, saffron, and a great many others. Some, to be honest, she didn't even know existed: za'atar, cardamom, furikake, garam masala.

  The walls were covered with kitchen equipment. Frying pans and pots of every size, slotted spoons and ladles hung in clusters. Beside the window, draped with a sheer white curtain, Greta found a small herb garden with a sophisticated heating system. She breathed in the air above the plants and identified at least basil, chives, and mint before all the aromas merged and began playing tricks on her sense of smell.

  He had told the truth when he mentioned he liked to cook. That kitchen must be better equipped than many restaurants.

  Pulling at a thread of memory, Greta tried to recall everything Daros had said when he spoke of his refuge in Freiburg. Besides wanting to have an allotment or a greenhouse — she couldn't quite remember which — he had mentioned another of his pastimes. Something to do with a bar near the cabin, wasn't it? She turned to leave. She was fairly certain she knew where she might find the person she had come to visit.