He hadn’t spoken for the past several minutes and she presumed he was sulking. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said stiffly, ‘I didn’t mean to be so brusque.’ Yes she had, he thought – even her apology sounded stilted. But he forgave her. ‘It’s all right,’ he replied. ‘I can understand your nervousness.’ She felt another irrational surge of annoyance, but tried not to let it show. Everything Moshe did and said grated. He didn’t understand at all; if he did, he wouldn’t have insisted she go to the funeral. And dismissing her trepidation as ‘nervousness’ was infuriating, damn him – she was becoming more terrified by the moment. How would she react, coming face to face with her cousin? The last time she’d seen David he’d been knifing a woman to death. And what if Eli were there? Moshe didn’t understand. He never had. She knew that now. Ruth had contacted Moshe Toledano a week after her return to Jerusalem, convinced that he was the only person in whom she could confide.
