Do you think people ever really change? The orange-pink light. The dark glow of the underground.

“What?” Matthew asked, abruptly gripping her shoulders. She didn’t flinch. “Do you disagree?” He dug his fingers deeper. “Do you not see how much you’ve changed?” When he began to shake her, it was hard.

She felt her chest heaving up and down; it was as if her internal organs were jockeying for position.

“Harder,” she said.

He let go.

“I mean it. Please.”

“Sometimes”—he sat down at the table—“I don’t really know if the person I knew—the one who made, you know, films, but also made meals and appointments and who just generally got shit done with a lot of energy and was really dynamic and—you know, that person—did I invent her?” He stood up again, looked at her straight on. “Was that you? I mean, it had to be you, right? You did all those things. You were also just … lovely.” He grinned the most miserable grin. “You were thoughtful and you were fun.”

“I was not.”

“You really were. I mean, at least most of the time.”

She moved closer, lightly touched his shoulder. It was as if, for a moment, they were at a crowded party and he was simply someone she knew.

“We should check on them.” He nodded to the house.

“I’m sure they’re fine.”

“But still.”

“No, of course.” She rose to her feet and started to follow him. They had once sat in the shade of an oak tree in Madison, Wisconsin. He’d cracked all his knuckles and sheepishly smiled.

“I met someone on a subway recently,” she said. “It was a strange conversation.”

He turned back to face her, looking down the slight incline. “A man, I’m guessing.”

She shook her head. “I mean, yes, a man, but old.”

“Right, okay. And?”

“I think we should hire another investigator.”

“Honey,” he sighed.

“I don’t want to give up.”

“I know.”

Then he resumed walking toward the house.

She stayed outside alone, and just like that, dawn was turning to morning. The same leathery skinny woman that she’d seen the other day—the one smoking, pushing a baby carriage full of groceries—she was crossing the footbridge toward town. Still smoking, still pushing that carriage, but this time it was empty.

INSIDE, ARMAN WAS making a pot of coffee. “So,” he said flatly, “we’re really tired. I think you should maybe head out after breakfast.” Then he cleared his throat and looked at them as if they were stragglers at a party that had ended several hours before.

“Of course,” Sarah said.