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of herself.”
    How I wished that had been true in the moment it had become clear that she could not.
    â€œShe was in a big hurry to leave work Saturday,” I said. “Did you guys have plans?”
    â€œJust to go out. No place special. We went to a couple of clubs on Clematis Street.”
    â€œWhich clubs?”
    Looking annoyed, she turned to the faucets and shut off the water.
    â€œI don’t know,” she said impatiently. She was nervous with my questions. Whether she had reason to be or whether she was simply sensing something was wrong, I didn’t know. “What’s the difference? We hit some clubs. We had a few drinks.”
    â€œWith anyone in particular?”
    â€œI don’t like all these questions,” she said. “It’s none of your business what we did.”
    She unsnapped the horse from the ties and started toward the barn with him. I followed.
    â€œI’m making it my business, Lisbeth,” I said.
    She put the horse in a stall and busied herself with the door latch.
    â€œHave you seen or heard from her since Saturday night either?” I asked.
    â€œNo. You’re scaring me.”
    â€œI sometimes have that effect on people.”
    â€œI wish you would leave.”
    She knew something bad was coming. She wanted me to go away before I set the bad thing loose. Then maybe it didn’t really exist and it couldn’t touch her life. Oh, to be twenty and still believe in innocence.
    â€œLisbeth,” I said.
    She didn’t look at me. She seemed to brace herself. I half-expected her to plug her ears with her fingers.
    â€œIrina is dead. Her body was found this morning in a canal.”
    The big cornflower eyes went glassy with tears. “You’re lying! What kind of sick person are you?”
    From the corner of my eye I could see one of the stable hands looking over at us, frowning. He started toward us with a pitchfork in hand.
    I turned to him and told him in Spanish that everything was fine but that I had given Lisbeth some very sad news. The death of a friend.
    The aggression went out of him and he expressed his apologies and went back to his business.
    â€œI’m sorry, Lisbeth,” I said. “It’s true. And there is no good or gentle way to say it.”
    The girl put her hands over her face and slid down to the ground, her back against the stall door. She drew in a shuddering breath and said, “No,” the word weak and muffled. “No, you’re wrong.”
    â€œI’m not. I wish I were, but I’m not.”
    â€œOh, my God!”
    I squatted down beside her and put my hand on her shoulder. “I’m very sorry. You two were close?”
    She nodded and sobbed into her hands until she gagged.
    â€œCan we go sit somewhere?” I asked quietly.
    She nodded, pulled a dirty rag out of the cargo pocket of her shorts, wiped her face, and blew her nose. She held on to my arm as we rose. She felt as weak and shaky as an elderly person in poor health.
    â€œWhat happened?” she asked, hiccuping air between syllables. “Did she drive off the road? She’s a terrible driver.”
    â€œNo,” I said, and said nothing more until we were seated on a bench at the far end of the barn.
    â€œIt’s not clear yet what happened,” I said. “There was no sign of her car.”
    The girl looked at me, confused. “I don’t understand.”
    â€œHer body was dumped there. She was probably murdered.”
    I thought she might faint, she was so pale. But she got up from the bench, ran around the corner of the barn, and retched. I waited, feeling empty, drained from telling her and, in telling her, reliving that horrible moment of discovery.
    When she came back and sat down again, she put her head in her hands. She was shaking visibly.
    â€œI can’t believe this is happening!”
    â€œMe neither,” I said.
    â€œHow can this be happening?”
    I would