“Three words,” Noah says, reaching into a brown paper bag. “Tuna. With. Onions.” He takes out a paper-wrapped parcel and soon reveals a large and extremely fragrant sandwich. My eyes start watering, again. “They were out of falafel at my favorite deli, so . . . Maybe our aromas will cancel each other out?”

Against my will, I laugh, and I’m shocked when Noah does, too. I raise my thermos and he holds up his sandwich. We lock eyes.

“Cheers,” I say, “to enjoying odiferous food in confined public spaces.”

I’m chewing a wonton and learning that I just can’t be in a bad mood while chewing a wonton. Noah’s chewing, too. The train comes out from underground, and we both look out the window awhile at the pink dusk of almost-spring. Would it be too much to ask for us to eat in silence the rest of the three-hour journey? We actually get along when we’re not talking.

My phone buzzes. When I look down, I see that Aude has sent me a photo. Of a keychain. My keychain. The one with Ryan’s key on it.

Please tell me this isn’t yours, she writes. I found it by the elevator bank.

“Oh no.”

“What’s wrong?” Noah asks.

“Nothing.”

“You sure? Because you look like you’re about to faint.”

“You have no idea what I look like when I’m about to faint.” But I do feel a little woozy. The image of Iris Bosch dumping my family heirlooms at Goodwill glows in my mind.

“I’m going to D.C. because I need to pick something up,” I say. “I need my keys to do it. And Aude just told me I left them at the office.” I cup my face, retracing my steps. “I ran into my friend as I was leaving . . . she gave me this egg drop soup . . . and I must have dropped my keys.”

“So, it’s actually key drop soup.”

I look at him, blink. “Oh my god, you just made a joke.” It was corny beyond belief, but it was a joke nonetheless.

Noah cocks an eyebrow, smiles. “I do it once a month on the full moon.”

“This is a fine time to let me know you actually have a sense of humor in person.”

“Business or residence?” Noah asks.

“Huh?”

“This place you need the keys to get into.”

“Residence. Why?”

“What kind of windows?”

“I don’t know, ones with panes. They slide up? I think.”

I watch Noah’s hands clasp together. I watch him lean back in his seat as his green eyes scan the ceiling. He’s thinking. This is what he looks like when he’s thinking. I picture him sitting like this at his desk in his beautiful Fifth Avenue penthouse, probing his mind for answers about characters I have loved.

“I can get you in,” he says.

“Uh, what?”