Breakfast was quiet. Sophie made eggs and toast, the same ordinary meal she had made a hundred times, and they ate at the kitchen counter, the photograph propped against the salt shaker between them. Aaron's notebook was open beside his plate, the three names still written at the top, the list of questions beneath them still unanswered.
He called Kerensa after the plates were cleared.
She answered on the second ring, her voice clear despite the hour difference. "I was hoping you would call."
"I need more than you told me last night."
"I know." A pause. "I've been thinking about it since we spoke. The translator who owned the book — her name was Elena Marchetti. I found her papers in the archives of UCLA's translation studies department. I was teaching a summer course there, and the department chair knew I was looking for lesser-known translated works. She pointed me to the collection."
"Elena Marchetti," Aaron repeated. The name meant nothing to him.
