I pounded on the door of her town house. There was no answer at first, so I kept my hand pressed on the buzzer until she came downstairs.

“Who is it?” she asked warily, peering out through the peephole.

“It’s Eric,” I said, my voice still trembling with anger. “I need to see you.”

“It’s late. I’m not dressed. Can it wait until tomorrow?”

“No, it can’t wait. I found out about you and Arthur.”

There was a long pause, perhaps twenty seconds; then she opened the door. She was in her bathrobe, wearing her furry bedroom slippers. Her hair was up and fastened loosely with a barrette. Her posture was stooped, like that of a Degas ballerina at rest. She led me silently into her living room. She looked disoriented.

“What did you find out?” she asked carefully. Bowman was dead, and she was still covering for him.

“I brought his laptop back from China. One of the files was a love letter he wrote you last February, after your trip to the Caribbean. I couldn’t believe it. I felt like a fool. How could you have done it? Why didn’t you tell me?”

“You snoop,” she said coldly. “Reading other people’s mail. It was none of your business. It was a secret.”

I was furious all over again, listening to her. “How could you have slept with him?” I asked bitterly. “It’s unbelievable.”

She put her hand up. “Stop it!” she said. There was deep anger in her voice. “You have no right to interrogate me, especially now, after Arthur’s death.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I have this feeling, Eric, that Arthur would still be alive if he hadn’t gone to China with you. That wasn’t any accident in Beijing. He was murdered. I’ve known it since the moment I heard the news. Tell me the truth.”

“Yes,” I said. “He was murdered.”

“Who did it?” Her voice was blue ice.

“The French and the Chinese.” She was the first person to whom I’d told that secret. Instead of being lightened, my burden felt heavier now. “You can’t tell anyone,” I said.

Tears filled her eyes suddenly. Her lip trembled for a moment; she bit it, hard, to keep from crying any more. “Why did they kill him? What had he done? Was it because he was a spy?”

“Yes. Something like that.”

“Why did you let him go to China? You knew! I told Arthur you suspected he was a spy—I had to—and of course he said it was all nonsense. But you knew he was in danger.”

“He understood what he was doing, Annie. He wanted to be free. His life had gotten so complicated. At the end, I’m not sure he wanted to live anymore. When that truck came down the alley toward him, he didn’t move.”