Ivan was served at his office, in front of his own people, which I had not planned but did not regret.

That evening he drove to the house and stood at the iron gate and pounded on it for ten minutes.

I didn’t open it.

When my phone rang I answered it and walked to the second-floor window, where I could look down and see him, small and furious in the drive with the phone against his ear.

“What the hell are you doing, Meredith?”

“Protecting my son.”