Was that an invitation he heard? It had been a decade since their breakup. It had been almost that long since they’d slept together.

Grant was head of Nike’s government affairs office. Fit, of course. A competitive marathon runner. Intellectual. They’d met while Klay was away. He couldn’t remember the assignment, or even the continent. He remembered all too well the day he returned home. He’d dropped onto the sofa with a beer, switched on the television, and noticed two copies of Runner’s World poking out from underneath the sofa. That was it. No muddy shoe prints exiting the back door. No foreign underwear in their bed. Just two copies of Runner’s World that weren’t current. Erin wasn’t a runner.

“He’s a good man,” Klay said.

“Yes, he is,” she said, and smiled expectantly.

He caught sight of the ring on her left hand and shook his head. “You’re engaged. Wow. Congratulations!” He smiled, pleased to discover he was genuinely happy for her.

“Yeah, we decided it was about time.”

He cracked his window and felt a warm late-morning breeze blow across his face. She steered onto the Dulles Access Road, and the Audi gathered speed. Adele was playing on the radio. She turned down the volume. “Do you want to talk about it, Tom?”

“Not especially.”

She took her eyes off the road and looked at him. “It’s not your fault.”

He didn’t respond.

“Look, it’s not my business, but don’t go to that place. Okay? Bad things happen around you because you put yourself in places where bad people are. The Jakarta boy was a terrible accident. Bernard was not your fault.”

Reductions. The Jakarta boy. Bernard.

“Do you have any Advil?” he asked.

“Look in the glove box.”

He found a bottle and took several.

“How’s it feel?” she asked.

“Comes and goes.”

“You’re not going to like this,” she said as they crossed Arlington Memorial Bridge into Washington, DC. “Porfle has arranged a small party for you.”

“I’d like to go home.”

“I know,” she said uncomfortably. “I gave him the spare house key from your office.”

He sighed. He’d forgotten that he still had a key taped to the back of his top desk drawer.

“Sorry,” she said. “You don’t have to act surprised.”

She pulled to the curb in front of his townhouse and parked. She went first up the wrought iron steps, opened the front door with his key, and ushered him in.

“Surprise!”