Emma’s knees are wooden from being held at tension. She walks toward Pradeep, where he stands waiting, and sets the bottle on his desk.

“This is for Simon, if he wants it. Thank you for everything.”

Pradeep gives her a solemn nod. He opens the door, and she exits, feeling oddly incomplete. She doesn’t look back, keeps moving forward, clutching the letter. Part of her realizes she should feel triumphant, but she gets a sense as if she is aging decades with each step away.

By the time she emerges into the light outside, she feels ancient. The sun is a shock. When she puts her shading hand down, she sees that the Washington bureau car has gone, and Bell and Cooper are standing by the Fairmont in the parking area. Their figures resolve from dark shapes in the glare, to defined outlines, and then to real people as she walks toward them.

“You got it,” Cooper says simply.

“Yes.” She attempts to smile.

“We got an address,” Bell says, looking as victorious as she should feel. “Jump in, I’ll tell you what’s happening on the way. We’re going to Annandale.”

He opens the car door for her. She’s been trying to remember the origin of Simon’s parting line—Thou wert lovely to the last. As she slides into the back seat of the Fairmont, the source finally comes.

It’s by Byron, of course. Composed in 1812, and taken from one of the great examples of elegiac poetry, entitled “And Thou Art Dead, As Young and Fair.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

The Butcher’s collecting his mail from a dead man’s address,” Bell says.

“What?” Emma is in the rear seat, with Bell turned sideways in the front to conduct a three-way conversation, and Cooper behind the wheel. It feels strange being in the back seat on her own. “Sorry, what does that mean?”

“It means we got lucky at Georgetown.” Cooper’s driving at faster-than-normal speed, watching his handling. “Bell asked about finding ‘Dr. Lord’ and they dug up the staff rep who handles the mail. She gave him an address.”

“Dr. Lord is listed as an associate emeritus professor,” Bell explains. “Like he’s retired. Mail that comes in for him is forwarded to a postal address in Annandale. That address turned out to be the residence of a Frederick John Delaney, an old-age pensioner who lived near the Fairfax hospital. Delaney died about eight months ago.”

“Fairfax hospital,” Emma says.

“That’s what we’re thinking.” Bell’s excitement is pressed down firmly, but she can still see it burning behind his eyes.

Cooper continues. “Delaney’s estate is tied up in probate, so his apartment can’t be rented or sold.”

“The Butcher must live or work somewhere nearby,” Bell says. “He can just stroll up and check the mail whenever he pleases.”

Cooper looks at her in the rearview. “This is it, Lewis. We’ve got SWAT scrambling—they’re meeting us at the Fairfax County sheriff’s office. The sheriff’s emergency response team is assisting. DEA is providing undercover vehicle support. And you’re holding the letter that this whole operation is focused on.”