Archie exhaled slowly. “I walked in on Leo cleaning up last night.” He glanced up at Henry. Henry was watching him intently. “He was covered in blood,” Archie continued. “He used a choke hold on me. I lost consciousness. He said the Russians were coming back, that he was trying to protect me. He killed someone last night, Henry. He told me this morning. An FSB agent who’d infiltrated the group. He said he had to do it to maintain his cover, that Jack suspects him. I woke up outside on a bank near the boathouse five hours later with a head wound and no memory of how I got there. Leo claims they left me in the bedroom and when he came back ten minutes later I was gone. I don’t remember.” Archie glanced at the pillbox in Henry’s hand. “But this morning, when I got out of the shower, I found a blond hair,” he said. Archie cleared his throat, clarifying. “I coughed it up.”

Henry rubbed his palm over his face and then paused, as if considering his response. “You should have a tox screen,” he said finally.

If he’d been drugged, a tox screen might show it, but it would also show opiates in his system, and Archie didn’t want to have to explain that. “It’s been too long,” Archie said. “It’s probably out of my system.”

Ginger whined in her sleep and rolled over on her back and Archie stroked her belly with his foot.

“I’ve been thinking about her,” Archie said. “I had a dream about her last night”—he watched Henry, looking for his reaction—“while I was unconscious. Before I found the hair. It seemed real. Like she was there.”

Henry’s face was expressionless. “That doesn’t mean she was,” he said. “So you think you found a hair in your mouth. A lot of people have blond hair. It was a party. You could have picked it up anywhere, off of anyone. I don’t have to tell you that. Have you considered the possibility that it belongs to Rachel? You know, the other blonde you occasionally sleep with?”

Rachel’s private bits were waxed to a prepubescent shine, though Archie was in no mood to get into that level of detail with Henry. Besides, this wasn’t about Rachel. Archie bent forward, retrieved the image from Sanchez from the coffee table, and began to unfold it.

Henry glanced at the picture and then waved it away. “I’ve seen it,” he said.

So Henry was more involved in the pursuit of Gretchen than he’d led Archie to believe.

“Maybe that’s her,” Henry said, flicking a hand at the picture. “Maybe she’s in the country. It’s a lot of maybes. The plan was not to bother you with this shit, remember? You can’t get involved every time there’s a sighting.”