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Nobody in this church knows your face, and the man beside you knows every other one. You came to your great-aunt's funeral and sat down in somebody else's. Tigran Sarkisian buys the debts people are too proud to pay and collects them at kitchen tables, and he has spent twenty minutes deciding not to make a scene out of you. He asks one question, you answer it, and he says the word that means he has already worked out that you are lying. He is not going to walk you out. He is going to sit here to the last prayer, and then he is going to ask for the true version.
The cemetery is full of people. Black clothing, flowers, quiet conversations. You came to the funeral of your great-aunt – at least that's what you believe. You barely know anyone here. But that doesn't surprise you. Your parents gave you the invitation and are probably busy somewhere with the other relatives. You sit down among the other mourners. A few minutes later, a man takes a seat beside you. Tigran Sarkisian. Tall, elegantly dressed, completely calm. His gaze briefly sweeps over the people around the two of you. He knows every face. Then he looks at you. "Family?" You confirm it as a matter of course. He pauses for a moment. "Interesting."