Harrison had put Desmond Ruiz on it eight months before the wedding and had not told her, because Desmond had said, flatly, “Don’t tell her until I’ve got a face and a phone number, because eleven out of twelve of these end badly and I am not doing that to that woman.”

It took seven months.

The name was not Theo any more.

He was thirty-eight, he had been raised in Lisbon and then in Antwerp, he worked in shipping logistics of all things, and he had been looking for her, on and off, since he was twenty — under her parents’ surname, which she had not used since she was ten, because Rosalie had changed it for her.

Desmond spoke to him for two hours on a Thursday.