Which wasn't why he'd kept this information from me. His motives were selfish. He simply didn't want his reputation tarnished.

I thought of the three lines of Moria's note and how they might fit Gafni's confession. I hate you for how you made me feel. That could describe Moria's sadness over the loss of her mother. I hate you for what you did to me. That could mean Gafni's responsibility for her mother's death. I hate you for what you made me do. This would refer to Moria finding her mother dead in a pool of her own blood.

Gafni must have run this interpretation through his mind a million times since Moria's death. I understood him better now. Understood his need to know why his daughter had killed herself, and why it drove him to hire me despite the risk of having his past misdeeds unearthed. He already felt responsible for his wife's suicide. The possibility of him being the cause of his daughter's suicide as well must have been unbearable. His need to find an alternative explanation must have been as urgent as a drowning man's desire for breath.

At the sight of him, with his bowed head and slumped shoulders, an unexpected emotion came over me: pity.

He had treated his wife badly. He had betrayed her. And this betrayal had led to her death and scarred his daughter's young soul.

But many men committed similar sins, and almost none of them suffered such brutal punishments. Gafni had lost his wife, and twice he had lost his daughter. Once when she expelled him from her life; the second time when she ended it. These twin tragedies—first the wife and then the daughter—must have birthed a terrible guilt. I knew such guilt. I knew how it could eat at a man.

So yes, despite my dislike for him, I felt pity. And this pity opened my mouth and pulled the following words from my throat: "I don't believe she killed herself because of you."

Gafni raised his head. His eyes were all questions and hope.

"The person in Moria's note," I explained, already regretting having said anything. "I don't think it was you."

He didn't move. Only his eyes blinked. Twice and slowly, like a predator lying in ambush. "Who then?"

I didn't want to tell him. Not yet. Even though I was sure I knew. Because I remembered my worry that Gafni would wreak terrible vengeance on whoever had pushed Moria to suicide. So I wanted absolute proof before I pointed the finger at Naomi Hecht.

"I have my suspicions, but I don't know for sure yet."

"So how can you be sure it's not... it's not..." His voice trailed off, and his fingers made a vague motion that might have been directed at himself.

"It's difficult to explain, but I just am," I said. "I'll be going back to Jerusalem in the next few days, and I believe that soon I'll be able to tell you who the person in the suicide note is."

Gafni looked at me across the expanse of his desk. His mouth was turned down, his lips mashed together. He didn't like my evasiveness one bit. "So basically, you can tell me nothing definite."

I cursed myself for succumbing to the pity I'd felt. I'd wanted to make Gafni feel better, but all I did was infuriate him and perhaps make him suspicious that I'd told him a lie he'd like hearing. I had to give him something concrete or he might go off on me.

"There is one thing," I said without giving the matter much thought, although, at a glance, I couldn't see the harm in it. "It has to do with Arye Harpaz."

Gafni's eyebrows shot up. "What about him?"

"What's he to you? A business associate?"

"He was a few years ago, and he'd like to be again." A cold smile bent his lips. "But he won't. I'm done with him. He's untrustworthy. You can't depend on him to keep his end of a bargain. I don't do business with men like that."

"Did Moria know him?"

He cocked his head, slitted his eyes. "Why are you asking this question?"

"Did she?"

He huffed in irritation. "Yes. Years ago, when Arye and I partnered on some ventures, I'd invite him home for dinner every now and then. And Moria would sometimes visit me at my office and run into him. I hope that answers your question. Now"—he made an impatient give-me motion with his right hand—"it's high time you answer mine."

So I did. I told him about talking to the neighbor who'd witnessed Moria and Harpaz's explosive argument on Moria's street. "It happened about a week before the suicide. Did you know they were in contact so recently?"

Gafni shook his head. His face was set, his dark eyes like lumps of coal ready to be put to flame.

"That's not all," I said, and I told him about finding the condoms in Moria's bedroom and then talking with Lillian Shukrun, though I didn't name her, and learning that Moria had a lover who would visit her apartment late at night. "She saw him once from the back, but I still managed to glean a description of him. Five ten or eleven. Lean. Dark hair. Rings a bell?"

Color started rising in Gafni's cheeks. He clutched the ends of his armrests so hard I thought his knuckles might split the skin.

"He was Moria's lover," I said. "Why they kept it secret, I'm not sure."

"Because Arye is married," Gafni said through clenched teeth, his voice rising with every word, his face turning blood red. "And because Arye knew I'd ruin him if I found out. The dirty bastard!" The expletive came out in a guttural shout that echoed around the office along with the wooden bang of the two fists he slammed onto his desk.

I flinched at his explosive reaction. I figured he might get mad, but I hadn't expected this erupted fury. Spittle dotted his lips and chin, and his eyes bounced around the room. His fists were still clenched. As hard as he'd hit the desk, they had to hurt, but he didn't seem to notice.

Finally, his gaze settled on me. "It's him, isn't it? He's the one who drove her to it."

I didn't need to ask whom he was talking about. I could have told him no, that Arye Harpaz did not cause Moria to end her life, but I knew that if I did, I'd have to explain why I was sure, that Gafni would not allow me to evade answering again.

"I don't know," I ended up saying. "Like I said, I need to do more work."

Gafni nodded, wiping his chin dry with the back of one hand. "You do that, Mr. Lapid. And finish the job fast."

I rested for six more days before I felt it was time to return to Jerusalem. By then, the bruises on my face had disappeared, and my forehead had shed its scabs. The large bruise on my ribs, where Kulaski had punched me, had shrunk like a pond in a drought. And like said pond, it was greenish and roughly circular in shape.

My ribs still hurt, but I'd gotten used to the pain and no longer took any pills. Still, I was in no shape to run or fight. If Dr. Aboulker knew what I planned, he would have thrown a fit.

Greta didn't. She took in my declaration that I would be returning to Jerusalem that evening in silence. Then she went to cook me a bountiful meal and stood over my shoulder until I ate it all.

I wondered if this was the equivalent of a condemned man's last meal but kept the question to myself.

I packed some clothes and put an empty bottle, a can opener, a spoon, and half a dozen cans of food inside my bag.

"Why are you taking all this?" Greta asked.

I told her, and she shook her head.

"You don't approve?"

"It's morbid."

"Do you see any other option?"

"No. I suppose you have no choice."

That left the question of Moria's gun. Should I take it with me? On the one hand, it was a murder weapon, and getting caught with it would be bad. On the other hand, if the police arrested me in Jerusalem, I'd probably be too dead to notice a murder charge.

Besides, the gun might come in handy, and not just for shooting.

So I slipped it inside my right coat pocket, putting the extra magazines in my left.

I left my apartment at nine, was on the bus to Jerusalem at nine thirty. The bus was nearly empty, which suited me fine. I huddled in my seat, leaned against the window, but I couldn't sleep. The closer I got to Jerusalem, the greater my foreboding became. Something terrible was going to happen. I just hoped it wasn't going to happen to me.