We took the service stairs down through firefighters and police. In the lobby, guests stared and phones rose. Victor stepped in front of them. “Put those down unless you want a lawsuit with a flash on it.”

Most of them lowered.

Outside, the cold slammed into us. Fire trucks painted the avenue red; smoke crawled up from the underground garage. Anna’s old blue sedan was gone — not damaged.

Gone.

The fire captain found me. “Mr. Martin. The vehicle involved was registered to Anna Silva, but there’s something else.” He glanced at the children and lowered his voice.

“The blast came from a neighboring SUV. Not hers. Hers was moved before the explosion.”