Instead I sit in my chair and reach deep into the open drawer for the hidden compartment at the back. To be clear, I inherited this interesting secret from the previous owner of the desk—whoever he was—so I can’t take credit or blame. Still, it’s there, and it’s sometimes useful, and on the few occasions when I have nothing better to do, I ponder what my predecessor kept in there. Booze, probably. Prohibition was the mother of so many inventions.

But I came of age after the blessed repeal, so I don’t have much use for this compartment. Just money or jewelry, when I need a temporary stash for either. And now this thing. This slim rectangle featuring a photograph of St. Basil’s Cathedral on one side and a short, handwritten note on the other, which I haven’t read.

This foreign postcard, which I received about a week ago, here at the office.

Now I stare at this flat cliché rendering of the onion-shaped domes, the black-and-white stonework, and consider whether I dare to turn it over and read the message on the other side. Whether I’m better off tearing that postcard to shreds and dropping it in the wastebasket for the night janitor to consign to oblivion.

In the end, I turn it over, if only to confirm the suspicion that Sumner Fox has planted in my head. The funny thing is, I’m not surprised at all by what it says. I’ve always known it would come to this. I’ve always known Iris would wind up in the worst kind of trouble there is, ever since Sasha Digby walked into her life on a spring day in 1940 and smashed us all to pieces.

Iris

LATE MARCH 1940

Rome, Italy

The woman flailed against the giant who held her against his ribs. His hands snatched at her waist and her naked thigh with such force, his fingers sank into the tender flesh. How she fought him! With one hand, she pushed his head from her breast. Her curls flew into the air. But she didn’t stand a chance, did she? Not a chance in the world against all that bulging muscle, all that solid, masculine bone.