“Oh, I agree. Especially now that she’s witnessed a murder—a cold-blooded execution, as she called it in her online post. Her followers have gone up by hundreds of thousands. People concerned about her take on health, well-being, and fashion now that she’s been so traumatized, no doubt.”

The lack of alcohol is making Simone a little testy, but it’s okay with me. She can be testy as long as she’s sober.

“This is it,” I say. “This video shows that Dao murdered Bernard Lam. Have the local police identified him?”

“I’m going through news reports using a keyword search, but no, not as far as I can see.”

“Then he’s long gone. He didn’t plan on killing Lam, and now there’s a video out there . . . he’s not sticking around. He must have left right after that shootout.”

“I mean, if I murdered somebody and had access to Michael Acosta’s resources, I would have made moves, too . . . There’s no doubt in your mind he’s coming after you, right?”

“None.”

“Well, if the police won’t identify him, there’s only one thing left to do. I’m going to release this video through social media and get the comments going. And I’ll drop some anonymous hints that the same guy who roughed up the protester is the one who killed our friend Bernie. Everyone and Interpol is going to be looking for David Tao now. Thank God for heiresses with top-of-the-line phone cameras.”

When I hang up, I also feel a moment of gratitude for the existence of heiresses, one in particular. It’s a feeling I never thought I’d have. Every day there’s a new surprise waiting for me, a new betrayal.

The doors and windows of the cabin are still locked. Lynn is sitting in the kitchen with a French press in front of her. Whisper is at her feet.

“I let her out a few minutes ago,” Lynn says.

“Thank you,” I say, very carefully. I’m not sure how to read her mood. The last time we were alone in a room together, Lynn and I, she told me her marriage was over and she was taking Bonnie to Toronto. She left behind photographs of Bonnie’s life. She didn’t have to do that, but she did. It was the start of something between us, but neither of us wanted to acknowledge it. But we knew it was there. A kind of understanding.

A beginning, perhaps.

She pours a cup of coffee for herself and one for me. “How are you holding up?” she asks.

“Couldn’t be better,” I say. “What about you?”

She sighs. “It’s been so long since someone asked me that question, I don’t even know how to begin answering it.”