“When do you think you’ll hear back from your sources?” I’m trying to contain my panic, but some of it seeps through in my voice. “Today? Tomorrow?”

“I don’t know, Mrs. Esguerra,” he says, and I see a hint of pity in those merciless gray eyes. “It could be at any time. I will let you know as soon as I hear something.”

“Thanks, Peter,” I say and, not knowing what else to do, walk back to the house.

* * *

The next six hours go by at a crawl. I pace around the house, going from room to room, unable to focus on any specific activity. Whenever I sit down to study or try to paint, a dozen different scenarios, each one more horrible than the next, start playing in my head. I want to believe that everything will be okay, that Julian’s plane disappeared off the grid for some innocuous reason, but I know better than that.

There are no fairy tales in the world Julian and I live in, only savage reality.

I haven’t been able to eat anything all day, though Ana has tried tempting me with everything from steak to dessert. To pacify her, I eat a few bites of papaya around lunchtime and resume my aimless pacing around the house.

By early afternoon, I’m literally sick from anxiety. My head is pounding, and my stomach feels like it’s eating itself, the acid burning a hole in my insides.

“Let’s go for a swim,” Rosa offers when she finds me in the library. I can see the concern on her face, and I know Ana probably sent her to distract me. Rosa is usually too busy with her duties to take off in the middle of the day, but she’s obviously making an exception today.

The last thing I feel like doing is swimming, but I agree. Rosa’s company is better than driving myself insane with worry.

As we exit the library together, I see Peter walking in our direction, a grave expression on his face.

My heart stops for a moment, then begins slamming furiously against my ribcage.

“What is it?” My tongue can barely form the words. “Did you hear anything?”

“The plane went down in Uzbekistan, a couple of hundred miles from the Tajikistan border,” he says quietly, stopping in front of me. “It looks like there was a miscommunication, and the Uzbekistani military shot them down.”

Blackness creeps in at the edges of my vision. “Shot them down?” My voice sounds like it’s coming from a distance, like the words belong to someone else. I am vaguely aware of Rosa placing a supportive arm around my back, but her touch does nothing to arrest the iciness spreading through me.

“We’re looking for the wreckage right now,” Peter says, almost gently. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Esguerra, but I doubt they could’ve survived.”

Chapter 22

Nora

I’m not sure how I get to the bedroom, but I find myself there, curled up in a ball of silent agony on the bed that Julian and I shared.

I can feel soft hands on my hair, hear voices murmuring in Spanish, and I know both Ana and Rosa are there with me. The housekeeper sounds like she’s crying. I want to cry too, but I can’t. The pain is too raw, too deep to allow the comfort of tears.

I thought I knew what it feels like to have your heart ripped out. When I mistakenly thought that Julian was dead, I had been devastated, destroyed. Those months without him had been the worst ones of my life. I thought I knew what it was like to feel loss, to know that I would never see his smile again or feel the warmth of his embrace.

It’s only now that I realize that there are degrees of agony. That pain can range from devastating to soul-shattering. When I lost Julian before, he had been the center of my world. Now, however, he is my entire world, and I don’t know how to exist without him.

“Oh, Nora . . .” Ana’s voice is thick with tears as she strokes my hair. “I’m sorry, child . . . I’m so sorry . . .”

I want to tell her that I’m sorry too, that I know Julian mattered to her as well, but I can’t. I can’t speak. Even breathing seems to require exorbitant effort, as though my lungs have forgotten how to function. One tiny breath in, one tiny breath out—that’s all I seem capable of doing at the moment.

Just breathing. Just not dying.

After a while, the quiet murmurs and soothing touches stop, and I realize that I’m alone. They must’ve covered me with a blanket before they left, because I can feel its soft fluffy weight on top of me. It should make me feel warm, but it doesn’t.

All I feel is a frozen, aching void where my heart used to be.

* * *

“Nora, child . . . Come, drink something . . .”

Ana and Rosa are back, their soft hands pulling me to a sitting position. A cup of hot chocolate is offered to me, and I accept it on autopilot, cradling it between my cold palms.

“Just a sip,” Ana urges. “You haven’t eaten all day. Julian wouldn’t want this, you know that.”

The jolt of agony at the mention of his name is so strong that the cup almost slips out of my grip. Rosa grabs for it, steadying my hands, and gently, but inexorably pushes the cup toward my lips. “Come on, Nora,” she whispers, her gaze filled with sympathy. “Just drink some.”

I force myself to take a few sips. The rich, warm liquid trickles down my throat, the combined rush of sugar and caffeine chasing away some of my numb exhaustion. Feeling a fraction more alive, I glance at the window and realize with shock that it’s already dark—that I must’ve lain there for a few hours without registering the passage of time.

“Any word from Peter?” I ask, looking back at Ana and Rosa. “Did they find the wreckage?”