He went through the apartment searching for signs Clarice had ever been there, that she’d ever existed, and the only thing he found was a paperback spy novel on one of the bedside tables. He picked it up. He didn’t remember seeing her read it, but it was on her side of the bed and he knew it wasn’t his. She’d loved reading those books, rolling her eyes mercilessly at the implausible plot twists.

He’d stopped at the grocery store on the way there and picked up a few things, some cereal and milk, some coffee, a toothbrush. He went into the kitchen and put on the coffee. Then he took a hot shower and after drying off and getting dressed in clean clothes, went back to the kitchen and poured himself a cup of the coffee. The TV was still on, a message telling him to call the cable company, and he turned it off. Then he flicked open Clarice’s novel and read the first few pages.

He was into the third chapter when the knock on the door came.

He went to answer it.

Roth brushed in past him. He was wearing a ball cap and sunglasses.

“You’re really spooked,” Lance said.

Roth looked at him. “Something’s not right,” he said. “Some fucking thing.”

He took off the hat and glasses and Lance saw he was tired. It was in his eyes. He’d had a rough night.

“Coffee?”

“Sure.”

Lance poured him a cup and they sat at the counter.

“Sorry for your loss,” Lance said.

“She wasn’t my loss.”

“You liked her.”

“I cared about her.”

Lance nodded. Roth had a reputation for being something of a ladies man, but Lance wasn’t implying that.

“There was a pile of food delivery brochures under the door,” Lance said.

“I’m not hungry.”

“You look like you could eat.”

“No, it’s fine,” Roth said. “Really.”

Lance nodded and they sipped their coffee. Neither spoke for a few minutes, until Roth broke the silence.

“So, if I’m going to read you in on this thing, I need to know you’re back,” he said.

“All right,” Lance said.

“You don’t need to think about it?”

“I thought already.”

“Because you sure had your doubts back in Montana.”

“You want me back or not?”

Roth sighed. He looked old. Losing Laurel had really been a blow.

Lance looked at him. “You want me to sign something?”

“Would you?”

“You serious?”

“Yes, I’m serious.”

“A piece of paper?”

“If I had one, would you sign it?”

“If it made you feel better.”

“All right,” Roth said. He reached into his briefcase and pulled out a tablet computer.

“You really going to make me sign something?”

“Of course not,” Roth said, opening the files.

A picture of Tatyana Aleksandrova came on the screen. She was in a designer dress, expensive shoes, every bit as beautiful as Lance remembered.