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questions, I’ll go and get it over with,” Curt said.
    â€œWe’ll give you time before we call on her. Please tell her not to touch anything in his room until we’ve checked it out.”
    Curt headed towards the front door. “Papa, they said that you aren’t supposed to ride your bike. Even if you could, I don’t think you should,” Etienne said.
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œYou have a bike like Ivan’s—I don’t want anything to happen to you.”
    â€œMy God, out of the mouths of babes.” Manon’s hand rose and briefly covered her lips. Her eyes wide she said, “It’s true. Maybe whoever did this terrible thing didn’t intend to kill Ivan. Maybe it’s a serial killer, and he plans to kill all of us.” She looked like she’d like to ratchet each word back into her mouth.
    Rhona sighed. Too much television. Serial killers were rare, although to watch crime shows you’d think one lurked around every corner. The killer might have got the wrong victim, but there’d be time to talk about that later. “Serial killings are rare. This certainly doesn’t look like one. I think you can put the thought right out of your mind,” Rhona said reassuringly.
    * * *
    â€œThey didn’t know much about him, did they?” Zee Zee said while Rhona navigated across the city. “I wonder if it’s because they’re Anglo-Saxon?”
    â€œWould your family be different?”
    â€œI’ll say. Family and clan are important for us. Are they too important? A good question. Family is one reason Somalia is such a mess. Everyone belongs to a clan and defines himself that way.” She sighed. “Clans are forever at war with each other. It’s feudal, never ending and may never improve. Are strong family attachments bad? Is Anglo Saxon reserve and refusal to get involved in other’s lives a good thing? Are there definitive answers? I don’t think so.”
    â€œDid feuding force you to leave?”
    A long silence. Rhona glanced at Zee Zee.
    â€œSorry. It’s a painful subject. My father was an Ethiopian Christian physician. The rebels killed him and my brothers because of their beliefs. My mother and I escaped and lived in a refugee camp for two years. Finally one of my mother’s brothers sponsored us to emigrate here. We do have tightly knit families. For example, our single women, no matter how old they are, do not live alone. I’m thirty-five, but because I’m unmarried, I live with my mother. I can tell you she knows a thousand times more about me and everyone in our extended family than Ivan Hartman’s family knew about him. There’s no way I’d be studying at George Brown without her knowing all about it. And my mother isn’t particularly inquisitive—it’s the way we are.”
    â€œI’m sorry to hear what happened to you. It’s hard to imagine.” She meant the murder, not the extended family. Rhona’s own clan played a large part in her life.
    â€œEven harder to live,” Zee Zee said. “Maybe Ivan’s mother will have more to tell us?”
    She clearly wanted to change the subject. And who wouldn’t? They agreed it was Zee Zee’s turn to interview.
    Rhona drove south then west to the far reaches of Queen Street. In her first months in the city, she’d read dozens of books about Toronto and memorized the gazetteer. She sometimes amused herself by thinking about passing the cabbies’ test if police work didn’t pan out. She not only knew streets but also had familiarized herself with the characteristics of neighbourhoods.
    Lena lived in South Parkdale, a run-down district with few trendy bars and boutiques. Investors and home buyers considered it an iffy neighbourhood for two reasons. First, because of its proximity to 999 Queen Street, the mental hospital. Secondly, because the conversion of many large homes into