“If I’m honest with you, there needs to be some honesty in return.” His eyes are not on her, but his posture leans forward.

She thinks the alcohol has made him a little greedy. “I always try to be honest in our conversations, Simon.”

“Your voice has a lovely musicality, did you know that? I do miss music so.…” His gaze returns from elsewhere. “Last time we talked about how you survived in the basement. That was very interesting, but this time I want to know why you joined the bureau.”

“Plenty of times when I don’t know myself.”

“That’s an interesting choice of words—‘I don’t know myself.’ Do you think you’re self-aware, Emma?”

She deliberately relaxes her posture. “Sometimes. It depends on the day.”

“Please remember that all the little lost ones are waiting, standing by the Butcher’s block.”

“I try to be self-aware. I’m not always very good at it.”

Simon wipes at the corner of his mouth with his pinky finger. “Did you think joining the FBI would give you a better understanding of yourself? Of why you feel the way you do?”

“I don’t think you can tell with any accuracy how I feel.”

“Actually I think I can.” His eyes are like a laser now. “You still run in your sleep, don’t you? You feel guilt that you couldn’t save them, and despair at the guilt. You wonder if it will ever go away, and you wonder if you really saved yourself after all. Maybe it would have been better to stay with Vicki and Tammy and all the other sad brides, if living means you’ll be slowly eaten away from the inside like this.”

“Well. That’s very astute. And that’s what therapy’s for, I guess.” Emma puts her glass down before the shake in her hand betrays her. “I haven’t joined the FBI, by the way. It was part of their initial offer, but I never agreed to sign up.”

“I would hope not—although you could always change your mind. There’s no accounting for self-delusion.” His lips have been reddened by the wine. “You won’t save yourself through good works, Emma. If the FBI says that, they’re lying. And if you believe it, you’re lying to yourself.”

“Simon, I could drink Lambrusco and chat with you all day, but I’m afraid we don’t have that kind of time.”

“They want me to reply.”

“Of course they want you to reply. They want you to reply today. Now.”

He makes a put-upon sigh. “Do they need an entire missive, or will a properly addressed envelope suffice?”

Emma had not thought of this. She has to turn it over quickly. “An envelope and a short note. Something congratulatory.”

Simon rolls his eyes but moves to his desk and seats himself on the bolted chair like a concert pianist before a baby grand. He selects a scrap of butcher paper and a felt pen.

“This would sound more natural if I had actually read the contents of the letter.”