I read and reread the first text: In case I want any of it? BD’s Missoni robe? My mother’s framed and mounted Kenneth Rothman Career Accomplishment Award, basically the Oscar for epidemiologists? I’d brought it down to show Ryan’s father once, after we’d had what I thought was a breakthrough conversation about my family. By the time I showed it to Mr. Bosch at a Sunday lunch a couple weekends later, he barely remembered our discussion. I should never have left the plaque at Ryan’s.

This means I have to go to D.C. Tonight.

And cancel on Noah Ross tomorrow.

I dial Terry, feeling very put upon. “Terry, this is Lanie Bloom.”

“I have caller ID.”

“Can I talk to Noah?”

“Noa doesn’t do the phone. You know that. Be glad you got me.”

“Listen, something’s come up, and I need to reschedule our meeting tomorrow. Do you have access to his calendar?”

“I’ll pass along the message, and see if Noa would like to reschedule.”

“It’s not an if, Terry—”

“You’ll hear from me if Noa does.”

I manage to wait until Terry hangs up to start cursing the phone.

An hour later, I’ve crammed my work for the weekend into three canvas totes. I’ve resurrected the old gym bag under my desk—leftover from an expensive lie I once told myself that I should join the spin studio across the street—and am amazed to find that spin-curious Lanie packed the bag with a change of clothes, clean underwear, deodorant, and a toothbrush. My Amtrak tickets and hotel are booked and now I can spend my remaining minutes in the office writing an email to Noah.

Terry has not called me back.

In my first draft of the email, I went on too long and was overly repentant. Then I deleted everything and went the never-apologize-never-explain route. People need to reschedule. It happens. Our agreement is not off because of one conflict. I keep telling myself this, but I’d feel better if Terry called. The email is still sitting in my drafts.

“Alors,” Aude says, appearing in my doorway in herringbone pants so high-waisted I think all her ribs are inside. “You should leave if you don’t want to miss your train.”

“You’re right,” I say, shutting down my computer. “Merci.”

“De rien.” She pauses. “How will you get into Ryan’s apartment?”

I wave my keychain, which still holds a key to Ryan’s brownstone. I’ll leave it behind for him when this is done.

“Lanie,” Aude says, “when you get there, allot yourself a very short time inside Ryan’s home. In and out—two minutes tops. I think it would be best.”

“What do you think I’m going to do? Climb inside his hamper to breathe in his laundry?”