She’d never entertained the thought that Abba might genuinely be afraid of someone finding him

Abba wasn’t a thief. Rivi knows this, and she refuses to let Gabe invent some dastardly backstory for their father. He had clearly gotten into some questionable activities, but that’s all they know. They don’t need to ascribe new sins to him.

The only thing he’d stolen was an identity.

Still, she doesn’t sleep. She stares up at the ceiling, her hands clasped over her stomach like a simulacrum of the dead at rest, and the memories rise up in her mind.

Abba put a hunting rifle in her hands when she was nine, his arms around hers. She’d wanted to be good at it. He seemed so stern about it, so serious, and she thought that it must be important, something special. A way to protect Gavriel. Aim, Abba told her. Breathe in, release. Steady. She hit the target on her third try, and Abba was impressed. A natural, he’d said, and Rivi had glowed with pride.

Years later, it had registered how unhinged the entire scene had been, and Rivi had stormed into the house and confiscated the rifle, furious with Abba. But that hadn’t been Abba’s first bout of paranoia.

There was a time in second grade when Rivi had missed a week of school, huddled in the basement with Abba and Gabe because of a disaster Abba had predicted that hadn’t come to pass.

Abba always seemed afraid. Rivi had assumed it was a mental health issue, an undiagnosed disorder. She’d never entertained the thought that Abba might genuinely be afraid of someone finding him.

The police?