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The discovery of her work for the American Federal Bureau of Investigation gives me hope. It is very important to my family that I can find her. Please reply as soon as possible …”
    I can hear her voice as it was on the phone, with its unique blend of accents, like nutmeg and tamarind, speaking through the words on the dull photocopy. “Since I was a little girl, I have held in my heart the name of Ana Grey.” As Dennis Rizzio had wondered, why make contact now? What is going on inside that “little house on a hill” that would cause the wife of a wealthy man in Europe to reach out to a stranger in America?
    Glancing out the bus window, I see the landscape has changed. The yellow fields are gone; instead there is a cheesy strip mall with a discount shoe pavilion and outlets for tires and wine. As I observe families at tables outside a pizzeria, the image of the two young brothers at the London restaurant comes into my head. I watched as the younger boy expired in his brother’s arms. I saw his body receive that decisive stillness. And Marco never once let go.
    I hear the desperation in Cecilia’s voice on the page and wonder if this is ultimately what she asks of me—the unconditional devotion of family. My heart stirs, but I deny the feeling. My grandfather Poppy’s house, where I grew up, was a forbidding, unsafe place of locked-away love with no possibility of consolation. All my life I have held myself apart from family bonds because I never believed family could mean anything but cold disappointment. Yet now, under orders of my superiors at the FBI, I am speeding toward it.

SIENA, ITALY

FIVE
    The commercial sprawl continues until the bus swings around a corner, heading straight for a huge stone wall. At the last minute we swerve through a narrow gate topped by a statue of a wolf. Once inside the walls, we halt at the Siena bus station, a concrete island in a small piazza.
    The driver waits as I bump along the aisle, impatient eyes meeting mine in the mirror. Out on the street, the air is baking and the spare trees are heavy in the stillness. The air brakes whoosh, and the bus is gone. I look hopefully for Cecilia Nicosa, but nobody approaches. I wait in the shade. The suitcase and rumpled shorts must immediately make me for American. I can’t get a signal on my cell phone. After fifteen or twenty minutes, I set out to find a landline.
    Straight ahead there is a fortress in a park. Turning the other way, you face a jumble of signs. Il Duomo, the main cathedral, is in that direction, which must lead to the city center. I seem to be near a school. College students are lounging on the steps of an apartment building, and there is a large outdoor café a few blocks farther on. I tick off the possibilities. Cecilia is late. Cecilia didn’t get my text message. Cecilia is mistakenly waiting at the train station. I am starting to feel panicky, although there is no danger.
    As I near the café, someone calls my name.
    “Signorina Grey!”
    A young man comes sprinting up from behind, waving. He wears baggy camouflage shorts and a T-shirt that says “Università di Siena.” He has thick black curly hair and wraparound sunglasses on a loop, a beaded choker around his neck.
    “I am very sorry. I apologize for being late. I am Giovanni. The son of Cecilia.”
    “ Ciao , Giovanni!”
    I laugh with pleasure and relief. He is one handsome dude. Half Salvadoran and half Italian is a hot combo plate. For a moment he hesitates, bouncing on his toes like a basketball player, then swiftly kisses me on each cheek. We hug. He smells like a boy.
    “Sorry for the confusion,” I say. “There was a train strike. I had to take a bus. I sent a text—”
    “No, no, it is completely my fault. I was with a friend, studying for an exam.”
    “I was expecting to see your mom.”
    “My mother had to perform an emergency operation at the hospital. I am always late for everything.” He smiles engagingly. “The car is over