The music swells, crescendoes, amplified by the excellent acoustics of the room. Emma knows nothing about opera, but the tenor’s voice creates a vibration in her heart that encourages tears.

When it’s over, she’s left blinking. The arm of the record player, with its sharp needle, has lifted automatically. Simon is already watching her.

“None shall sleep, indeed. Certainly not tonight.” The finger he employed to make her wait is now lifted to his bottom lip. “Are you excited, Emma? There’s going to be quite a gala here this evening—I hope you’ve been invited.”

“My invitation seems to have been neglected,” she says, still surfacing after the music. “But I’ve brought myself along anyway.”

“And all dressed up, too. Your running shoes are looking a little worn down, though—the path to self-forgiveness is a stony one, it seems. Or maybe you’ve been running an honor lap for the fallen dead. Poor Agent Cooper.”

The quip about Cooper stings, even though she braced for it. “Dr. Scott said you might be leaving St. Elizabeths.”

“For new adventures, yes.” Simon grins, moves to his desk, and settles himself on top of it. He picks through the fruit in his bowl.

“There are worse places to be than here.”

“It doesn’t really matter, does it, if they’re all jails?” His eyes gleam, a cold flare on a vast tundra.

Emma forces herself not to recoil. “You must be looking forward to seeing Kristin.”

“I’m reserving judgment. It never pays to get too excited about FBI promises.” He takes an apple from the bowl, tosses it. “Did you enjoy the Puccini? It’s the most hackneyed aria, but I was restricted by Dr. Scott’s execrable taste.”

“It’s beautiful. But you know that.”

“Perhaps we might attend the Kennedy Center together one day and hear something good. Consider it an open invitation.” He tilts his head, clearly tickled by the idea, before returning the apple to the bowl. “But you have to catch the Butcher first, of course. Do you think he’ll fall into the FBI’s trap this evening? Are you here to keep watch over me, so I’m not exsanguinated in my sleep? That would be fun, like a slumber party. We can wear our pajamas—oh, look, I’m already wearing mine.”

She takes a measured step closer. “I’m here to see how you are. And… to make sure you don’t take advantage of the situation. I know you’ve got something planned, Simon.”

“Do you?” He crosses his legs, resting his lower foot on the chair. “Then perhaps you’re not keeping up. I’m the bait, you know. When the Butcher arrives to harvest my ‘donation,’ will the FBI rush to my rescue? I’m sure they’d be perfectly happy just to nab their target and leave me a bloodless husk.”

“I’m going to make sure that doesn’t happen,” she says evenly. Nobody deserves a death like the Butcher’s victims suffered—not even Simon.

“And ensure that I stay in my cell, yes, naturally. But it would be nice to catch the Butcher yourself. Why give all the credit to the FBI?”