It was for his own exposure.

Every word out of his mouth had been a performance of love, flawless in every detail, and this single question had betrayed the thing the performance was built to hide: that he was not afraid she would die.

He was afraid she would talk.

I have thought about that question as a physician thinks about a diagnostic sign, because that is what it was — a single involuntary tell that revealed the disease beneath a flawless surface.

Luca’s entire performance was, I have said, a masterpiece; I could find no fault in the disheveled hair, the cracking voice, the wet eyes, the desperate grip.