But at least no other member of his family had opened the door to me. Secretly, I was extremely relieved about that. And it helped me to stay in control of myself a bit when I saw that Henry was having difficulty doing exactly the same thing.
“I … what…?” he stammered. As usual, there were deep shadows under his eyes, and his skin was almost transparent, which would have looked unhealthy in anyone else, but not Henry.
“This text came from you, didn’t it?” I held my cell phone out to him. “So what did you want to talk to me about?” Up to this point I’d kept really cool. Unfortunately I had to go on chattering and spoil the effect. “Lovely house, by the way. Lovely windows. Lovely … er … green bush. Lovely door. Lovely cat. And lovely rubber boots and…”
“Yes, all of it is just lovely,” agreed Henry, and a tiny grin lifted the corners of his mouth before he frowned again. “Listen, Liv, this isn’t a good moment.”
“You sent the text,” I reminded him, with a lot of emphasis on the word you.
“Yes, I did. But I didn’t expect to see you here a minute later. We do have to talk, but not now.”
“Because?”
“Because…” He looked anxiously down the road, which seemed very peaceful in the light of the setting sun. There was almost no traffic here on a Sunday afternoon. “Because it doesn’t happen to be a good moment.”
I bent down to pet the cat. “Well, since I’m here, can’t you at least take the opportunity of telling me what it’s about?”
Henry hesitated briefly. “It’s only … I was thinking about what Anabel said.”
I abruptly raised my head. Anabel? He wanted to talk to me about Anabel?
“I know she tells lies right, left, and center, but in this case I’m more or less sure that—” He stopped short. A swanky cross-country vehicle turned the corner at high speed. The engine roared in the afternoon silence, and as it screeched to a halt outside the garden gate, Henry rolled his eyes. “It would be a really good idea if you left now, Liv. If possible before anyone sees you who … oh, shit.”
Apart from the fact that I had no idea how to disappear through the garden gate without being seen by whoever had just parked right in front of it, it was too late, anyway. A tall man got out of the passenger side, a man in his late fifties, maybe older, even though he still seemed to have all his hair. He was suntanned, his eyes were hidden behind dark glasses, and when he opened his mouth and began talking, I saw a flash of snow-white teeth.
“Find your mother,” he told Henry without any other greeting. “I must have a serious word with her. Milo’s been stealing again. He denies it, but Biljana saw him.” He opened the back door of the car and helped a little girl out of her child seat and down to the sidewalk. She was wearing thick striped tights, a short red skirt, and a flower-patterned quilted jacket, and she beamed, wide-eyed, at Henry. It was his four-year-old sister, Amy. I already knew her from her dreams, where Henry and I had sometimes met. They were colorful and sweet as sugar. A boy climbed out of the car after her. I’d have known him anywhere as Henry’s little brother—he was kind of the narrow-shouldered mini-edition of Henry himself. He had the same double cowlick on his head that made the hair stand out in all directions, and the same intensely bright gray eyes. However, he didn’t seem as self-possessed as his brother; in fact, he looked miserable.
“I didn’t steal anything,” he told Henry with his lower lip jutting. “She’s lying just to make me seem bad. She probably took it herself. Ouch!”
His father (at least, I supposed it was his father) had grabbed him by the back of the neck and was holding him tightly, like a naughty kitten. Amy opened the garden gate and skipped over to me.
“I don’t steal things,” she said, looking curiously at me. “Milo doesn’t steal things either. How about you?”
Well, maybe a stupid trapper’s cap, but that was all.
Henry groaned. “What’s been st … er … what’s gone missing?”
“Grandpa Henry’s rococo snuffbox,” said Henry’s father, pushing Milo through the garden gate ahead of him. “The one from the J. P. Morgan collection. It’s no joke, and no silly boy’s prank. Go on, call your mother, will you?”
“She’s … she’s not in,” said Henry. “Let go of Milo.”
Only now did the driver’s door of the car open, and a woman got out. “That rococo snuffbox is very valuable,” she said in an Eastern European accent, rolling the letter r.