But there’s a light on in Peter Vidal’s yacht.

A man in a long navy jacket approaches. His head is bare, even though he’s been standing here watching Vidal’s boat as long as I have.

“You’re not cold?” I ask.

“This is not cold compared to where I grew up.”

“And where is that?” Because his accent betrays nothing.

He ignores the question. My savior could say he’s from any northern clime and I wouldn’t be surprised. Or maybe his origin story is as unimportant as his name.

“It’s time for our chat now,” Edison Lam’s bodyguard says to me.

“Mr. Lam is back in town,” I say.

He’s not surprised at the conclusion I draw. “Yes.”

“It was nice of him to ask you to keep an eye on me.”

He nods. Yes, it was nice. “We should get going.”

A man of few words. I like that.

I also appreciate the fact that he was honest about surveilling my movements. His teams are very good, and it has been fun to see if I can slip by them. But they’re top-notch, Edison Lam’s guys. The best that money can buy. I can’t shake them, despite my best efforts. It would be a nuisance if I didn’t know that no one else can get through their defenses, either. I’m safe, while they’re watching. It’s a more comforting thought than it should be.

Following behind him I feel a transference of tenderness, the sort I’d begun to feel for Brazuca. Now, I only think of Brazuca—because I’ve never called him Jon; even our intimacy has never allowed for it—lying in a hospital bed. Every once in a while, his face is replaced with Nate Marlowe’s, then Leo’s. Sometimes it’s Seb Crow, my dead friend. I wasn’t responsible for Seb’s death, but if I had been around during his final days, maybe I could have eased his passing somehow. Spared him a little pain. These men, the three who are still alive, of blood and fragile bones . . . I can’t do anything more for them. Except maybe stay away.

For now.

We go to a sprawling mansion in Point Grey. The house seems empty as the bodyguard leads me down a long hallway. There are family photos along the walls, of Bernard Lam and a woman I’ve never seen before. His wife, probably. Some of his father and mother.

We go into a study at the end of the hall, where Edison Lam waits. He looks up from his papers when we enter. “Hello again,” he says to me. “Kristof told me you got into some trouble while I’ve been away.”

His glance passes from me to the bodyguard, who closes the study door and stands just inside of it.

I nod. “You could say that.”