By the time we reached a motel, my reflective mood had blown over, leaving only wisps of cloud. I’m no good at brooding. After “the Incident” I think I disappointed some people by not falling into a fit of depression like some Victorian heroine, retiring to my bed and wasting away until nothing remained but a melancholy epigraph for my grave. Then there were those who wanted to see me rage into battle, fight the establishment, middle finger extended to the world. When I’d simply shrugged and started over, I robbed both groups of the chance for some classic “wronged woman” drama. But I hadn’t been wronged. I’d made a choice. I’d paid the price.

Given the chance to do it over, would I—could I—do any differently today?

Probably not.

Jack and I shared a motel room. I’ll admit when he broached the “one room or two” question, my instinctive response had been to say “two…of course.” And that wasn’t because I suspected Jack wanted more out of this partnership. In two years he’d never looked at me in a way that suggested he’d even noticed I was of the opposite sex.

Yet sharing a room required a whole new level of trust. If we were partners, though, this wasn’t the time to say, “Sorry, I don’t trust you enough to sleep in the same room.”

So I’d taken a deep breath, told myself “In for a penny, in for a pound” and asked him what he thought we should do. One room was safer, he said. In the future, he’d try to find suites with separate bedrooms and pullout sofas, to give me privacy, but it was too late for that tonight. So one room—two beds—it was.

The next morning after breakfast I called Emma at the lodge to check in. Then we headed out to our first stop of the day—a meeting with a contact of Jack’s in a business district that looked as if it hadn’t done much business in a while. The For Lease signs just barely outnumbered the pawnshops. After a half-block of silence, I cleared my throat.

“This guy we’re meeting, am I allowed details? Like who he is and why we’re talking to him?”

Jack skirted a trio of slow-walking seniors and didn’t speak until we’d outpaced the three by at least twenty feet.

“Saul’s retired,” Jack said. “Like Evelyn. Old pro. But more…” He paused. “Involved. Keeps his ear to the ground. Listens to gossip, rumors. These days? Nothing else to do.”

“So you trust him.”

“Don’t distrust him.”

Jack stopped in front of a dilapidated coffee shop, checked the address—or the portion of it that hadn’t peeled off the window—then opened the door.