Whisper trots to me as I kneel on the ground with my arms wide open. She’s a gray mutt of indeterminate age, with a distinctly feline personality. The personality thaws for a moment as she gives in to her excitement at seeing me, her primary food person.

Maybe her favorite food person?

I can’t tell. Her tail whips back and forth, almost of its own volition. Her throaty cries tell me that I’m forgiven for leaving, but my departure will never be forgotten. She hesitates after briefly licking my face, as if deciding whether to take this lovefest any further. She settles for pushing me over and barking for a while in complaint. Then she lays her body on my lap and presses her face into my chest.

“That is a nose,” I say, giving it a smacking kiss. The nose in question is as warm as rubber on a summer day. She whines and sneezes off my kiss. She knows it’s some nose, has always had a good idea of her own worth. I’m lucky to have this kind of love in my life, I think, as I glance up at Leo. I wonder if the glint in his eye is a look of possession directed toward my dog, but no, on closer examination I see it’s a tear.

He goes into the kitchen.

I don’t follow immediately, but when I do, I notice for the first time that he’s wearing Seb’s ratty old plaid bathrobe. When I saw him last, he’d been in a pair of charcoal slacks and a tailored Oxford shirt. We’d both been working at his small PI firm at that time. He was looking a lot better than he does now.

Leo looks at me, really looks, and says: “She’s not safe with you.”

“What?” It takes real effort to make my voice this clear, and despite the effort, it still sounds like some small animal has attacked my lungs. Leo doesn’t notice.

“Whisper. She’s better off with me. There are people after you and she’s getting on in years. I think she deserves some stability, don’t you? You upend her life to nurse Seb; then you run off to Detroit, where you almost got yourself killed.”

I look at Whisper, who isn’t young—that’s true—but is otherwise the picture of health and vitality. Her eyes and ears are as sharp as they have ever been, and her coat is shiny and thick. She’s in better shape than I am.

“One person is after me.” I think about it for a moment, then add, for clarity: “Right now. Only one person at this time. How did you know about that, anyway?”

“Because it’s you, and someone is always trying to murder you for some reason or the other.”