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quality he had never been able to shake.
    “I’m sorry for your loss,” Marsh said now as he led her through the foyer and into the densely furnished living room. “I expect you’d like to have a look around. Take your time. When you’re ready there are papers to sign.”
    She nodded absently, barely aware of him fading away. She had always read that when you returned to your childhood home it looked far smaller than you remembered, possibly more shabby. She was, therefore, somewhat taken aback at how huge the rooms appeared, how dripping in expensive artwork, rugs, crystal chandeliers, and silver- and gold-worked pieces that, to her eye, belonged in a museum. Money was everywhere to be seen, but her father was not. Jason Bourne had erased him from the scene with the thoroughness of a professional. And yet so much of her father remained, calling to her as she went from room to room, then up the stairs to the second floor, down the hall to the right, at the far end of which was her father’s bedroom suite.
    Standing on the threshold, she pushed the door open but did not walk in. Staring at the round bed, she wondered how many women her father had fucked since the morning she had walked in to see him on top of some woman. A great many, she would imagine. As for her mother’s identity, Ouyang had gathered conclusive proof only several months ago. She was certain that, on the other side of the world, he was wondering if she was going to see Constanza Camargo. After all, her house was just on the other side of the park, at the corner of Alejandro Dumas and Luis G Urbina.
    Entering the room, she skirted the bed and stood by the window, gazing out at the trees of Lincoln Park. She thought she could see that house on the corner of Alejandro Dumas and Luis G Urbina, but possibly it was only her imagination. She conjured an image of her father, but almost immediately it vanished like a stone drowned in a lake. Unconsciously, through the shantung silk of her handbag, she touched a small jade box, precious as a Burmese pigeon-blood ruby. A gift from Ouyang, it contained a sheet of paper, folded twice into a small square. Written on the paper was the name and current address of Constanza, Maricruz’s mother, who, Ouyang assured her, was still alive. She carried the box with her, touching it periodically as if it were a talisman.
    Turning from the window, she went through her father’s bedroom, opening closets and drawers, peering in, touching nothing, drifting from one intimate item to another like a wraith. And indeed, she felt like a ghost as she descended the stairs, silent as a breeze, returning to the living room where Wendell Marsh sat drinking strong black espresso, waiting patiently for her.
    “The house seems odd, doesn’t it,” he said, “without him in it?”
    Maricruz did not think so, not really. To her way of thinking, the house was always something of a museum; now it was fulfilling its purpose.
    “Sit,” Marsh said, indicating a chair beside the cocktail table. “Would you like an espresso, a beer, something stronger?”
    Maricruz declined everything. Perversely, she resented the fact that Marsh was more familiar with the house than she was. It wasn’t his house, she thought. It would never be his house.
    “Let’s get on with it, Wendell.”
    He inclined his head. “As you wish.” He set out three copies of half a dozen documents and produced a pen from his inside breast pocket.
    “You seem pale, Wendell. Are you feeling ill?”
    He looked up and smiled wanly, obliged to wipe his forehead and the back of his neck with a linen handkerchief. “You know me, Maricruz. I never was a big fan of Mexico. And especially these days when the gutters are running red with blood and people are being separated from their heads—” He broke off, shuddering. “My apologies. This is your country.”
    “Well, it was.” She took up the first set of papers but did not look at it. “Where is my father’s cook,