Paul knew he was drunk, but the key to mastering the condition was to be cognizant of it, and Paul was fully aware that he was not in his right mind. But it was only in his inebriated self-aware state that he was finally able to put some distance between his heart and the light-absorbing black hole of inconsolable pain spinning inside his chest. For the first time that evening, Paul didn’t feel like crying. The booze allowed him to escape the gravitational pull of grief that never let him go while sober. Sober, at least, he could work, blinding his mind from the sense of loss with an intense focus on whatever task was at hand. But when his mind was idle for more than a few moments, he was invariably sucked back into the abyss. It wasn’t right, and it wasn’t even normal, but it was the way things were. Carmen was his soul mate, and his soul was torn in two.

Now that he was drunk, the iron bonds of grief were slipped, which allowed for a certain clarity of thought, or at least perspective. He had the overwhelming sense that Carmen was watching him at that very moment, and he was certain she was unhappy with him. Not just unhappy, but ashamed.

“You have important work to do. Have you forgotten? Why are you just sitting there, feeling sorry for yourself?”

He nodded, agreeing with her. She was right. Carmen was always right.

“I’m sorry, Carmen.”

“Prove it.”

Paul shut his eyes, willing her voice away. He picked up his glass and lifted it to his lips, but he couldn’t drink it. Not now, at least.

He stood and wobbled toward the kitchen table, where he had laid his laptop shoulder bag. He struggled with the zipper but finally managed to get it open, and a minute later the machine was powered up. He blinked furiously, trying to remember what he was supposed to do next. Through the fog it finally came to him.

He zigzagged his way to the staircase and climbed up with some effort to his bathroom. He tugged on the spring-loaded shower curtain rod, but he pulled too hard and the whole thing came crashing down. Didn’t matter. He’d fix it later.

Paul pulled the cap off the far end, trying to fetch Rhodes’s drive, but his fat fingers couldn’t feel the tissue paper. He looked inside the rod. Nothing.

Someone had stolen the USB drive.

His heart raced as panic flooded over him, dumping enough adrenaline in his bloodstream to sober him up a little. He suddenly remembered something.

He dropped the curtain rod and marched over to his closet and picked up the shoe that he’d stuffed with the sock, and in it found the USB.