From the corner of my eye, I catch a glimpse of the little devil and angel pair through the hallway mirror, pointing and stifling their laughter at me.

“For abusing your trust and, um, invading your privacy . . . and hers too.” I glance in the direction of Corinne’s bedroom, wondering if she’s in there now. If she can hear me.

The silence as she eyes me up and down is intentional. Chantale Troy feels no compunction to provide a reply, and by the look on her face, she would have no second thought about slamming the door in my face right now.

“Come in,” she says, stepping back in. “There’s something I’d like to share with you.”

I sidestep into the apartment, almost tripping on Palm Tree in the process. He’s currently rocking a party jacket with trumpets sewn all over.

“Hey, buddy,” I whisper. “I like your coat.”

He’s thrilled to see me, and I very badly want to pick him up right now, but I know I’ve lost that right. Denied, he lets out a few happy yaps. I’m sorry to you too.

“That was not my idea.” Chantale sighs, picking up her glass of wine from the kitchen counter and taking a gulp. “Corinne picked it up at that overpriced little store on Ninety-fourth and Broadway. My daughter has developed a taste for the tacky lately.” She arches an eyebrow at me.

Guess I deserve that.

“There’s a . . . website where you can find dog clothes pretty cheaply,” I say, ignoring the growing pit in my stomach and focusing on Chantale. “I could send you the link if you wanted.”

Chantale’s glass returns to the counter with a clank.

“I think you’ve had enough interaction with my in-box for the time being, don’t you?”

I deserve that too.

“How do you think you got caught?” she asks.

I pause. Of all the things I’d been thinking about, this question had fallen right through the cracks. I couldn’t even begin to imagine the how.

“Columbia has an eleven-billion-dollar endowment,” I say with pursed lips. “I assume they have pretty good Information Technology.”

She snorts. “The money’s not going to Information Technologies, believe me.” Her wineglass refilled, Chantale moves to sit on the couch and crosses both legs and arms, eyeing me like the suspicious, fun-house-mirror version of Aunt Terry: elongated, stern, all boundaries and apprehension at my sight right now.

“A few weeks ago, during a very long flight to Switzerland,” she starts, “my daughter laid out a thirty-nine-bullet-point plan as to why I should break protocol and use my professional reputation and limited free time to write a college recommendation for our dog walker, whom she’d found herself smitten with.”

Oh. Hearing that twists the knife even harder.