I walk into the living room and gaze out his floor-to-ceiling windows to the city below. It’s a beautiful view. Manhattan looks like a carpet of lights, the windows of the skyscrapers glowing gold. They look like low-hanging stars.

I’m about to lose everything.

I put my hand to my head. Press the drawing to my heart. I feel sick.

And I wonder . . . how strong is the glass? I had leaned against it as Lander touched me. It had felt as if his touch was the one thing that kept me from falling.

But he’s not touching me now.

What would it take to break this glass? What would it feel like to really fall? What kind of relief can really be found in death?

“Bell?”

I don’t move. The drawing is still pressed against my chest. I won’t be able to hide it.

And suddenly I realize I don’t want to hide it. If the hellhounds are going to be unleashed I’d rather fight them now than cower in the corner waiting for their attack.

I whirl around and there he is, looking almost guileless in his untucked pin-striped shirt and faded jeans. The natural highlights in his brown hair almost match the glow of the city lights.

But this is not a guileless man.

I swallow hard and slam the picture onto the coffee table.

He pauses a moment, staring down at the drawing. “How did you—”

“I saw it last night while we were having sex,” I snap, cutting him off.

I can see his mind working quickly. He’s still thinking about how I got my hands on the picture, but now it hardly matters. If he knows I’m a spy, clearly he knows I’m capable of rifling through a desk or two.

“What does it mean, Lander?” I ask, my voice icy.

“Kind, Witty Heroine,” he says slowly. “Isn’t it self-explanatory?”

“Right.” I cross behind the armchair, putting one more piece of furniture between him and me.

“I would think you would be flattered,” Lander adds.

“I was . . . until Jessica started telling me all about your love of anagrams. And then I started thinking about how you came up with the title of the picture you drew of the biker.”

“The biker?” he repeats. He’s studying me now with a cold curiosity. He doesn’t look confused and he certainly doesn’t look worried. He may not have been expecting this confrontation, but now that it’s here he’s ready for it. I can just tell.

“Yes, you know,” I say sarcastically, “the guy who Cries in Rebuke. The way you came up with the title . . . It was like you were working out a puzzle. And you were.”

“Was I?”