“Huh? What time is it?” Dinner had gone long, into a second bottle of wine. Herb was in a good mood, chatty about endorsements. Apparently, he was a few days away from sealing a deal with Nike. “The Goodyear,” he’d said, hands in the air like he was envisioning the marquee. He said it was the first time they’d named a shoe after a ballplayer since Griffey—Sara nodded like she knew what that meant. She didn’t mind that she didn’t—she just liked having the light of Herb’s attention cast on her, his mood so unabashedly cheery. They’d even had a small cake—how he’d snuck that in without her knowing was a mystery. Her wish, as she blew out the candle, was that they could stay like this forever, chatty and happy and each other’s everything. She didn’t need the fancy dinners, the little black dresses: just this. That he wouldn’t go back to Los Angeles, not for the regular season, not ever. Earlier she’d overheard him talking to Marlene about accessible rentals in Culver City, and it nearly made her cry.

“Two thirty-seven.” He’d been barking at Letterman when she said goodnight. “We have to go down to the precinct.”

“The precinct?” She thinks of Davis, of her own stupid behavior, the many times they could’ve gotten caught. They should’ve. Davis carried drugs on him more often than not, made a game of skipping out on bills at fancy restaurants. Had something to do with dealing, but she never knew exactly what. Never asked.

“You have a hearing problem?” Herb snaps.

She thinks of the three big glasses of wine she had with dinner, wonders if her head is still buzzing. She swings her legs off the side of the bed. Only a little; she’s fine to drive. “What’s going on?”

“Just meet me at the car.” He reverses his chair out of the doorway.

The city is quiet as well, the roads all but empty. Theirs is the only car at the intersection of Hayden and Shea, each street seven lanes across and typically jam-packed. Sara waits for the light to turn green. “Can you tell me what’s going on?”

“No.”

“But—”

“Sara, now is not the time.” The light changes. “Please, just go.”

The police station is a comparative commotion, a squad car pulling out, its lights on but sirens off, a half dozen more patrol cars parked in the lot. Sara pulls into a handicap spot. She’s always been so scared of this place. “Can I come in?” She means to help him, but realizes that’s not how it sounds.

“Looking for your boyfriend?” Herb shoves his phone into his breast pocket.

“No, I—” The chance to see the inside, to walk in and then walk right back out sounds strangely alluring, but Herb’s scowl suggests she drop it. “Never mind.”