I was in the best shape of my life on the day I lost my job. In my first year of poverty, I gained ten pounds on cheap, starchy foods and lost all my muscle tone through lack of a gym. There was a reason why obesity was the scourge of the poor.

Salvation came only when I took up running. I ran for miles, hours, every day, through three of the five boroughs, through posh neighborhoods and poor, at all hours of the day and night, and I never once feared for my safety, because I knew I could outrun anyone who might threaten me.

These were the thoughts roiling through my mind while I jogged in place in Interview A. I’d been in this room now for twelve hours, slept for a few of them, and sat for the rest, until I realized that my brain was in danger of atrophying along with my muscles. If I hoped to have any shot at matching wits with Ingram Barrett, I had to keep my blood flowing. So I ran for an hour, did jumping jacks and burpees, and was just cooling down when Detective Cruz entered the room.

“Oh!” He stopped short. “Sorry.”

I was standing on one leg with the other stretched out behind me in an arabesque. He looked embarrassed, as if he’d caught me flossing or worse. I lowered my leg to the floor and stood up straight. “Just trying to keep my blood circulating,” I said.

“Sure. I get it.”

Something seemed to have changed again. His eyes were once more soft, and his lip no longer curled into the sneer he’d worn during our last session.

He held up his arms. He had a big paper bag in one hand and a small paper bag in the other. The aroma of grilled meat was floating out of one of them. “I brought you some lunch,” he said. “And some clothes from your apartment.”

“Oh! Thank you!”

I couldn’t say which one made me happier. He handed me the bags. I wanted to tear into the food, but not while he was standing there. I took a peek inside the larger bag.

“I don’t know if I brought the right clothes.” He shifted uncomfortably. “They were in the hallway outside your apartment.”

I nodded. That was where I’d last seen them. Inside the bag were a sweater, jeans, socks. A bra and panties. I looked up at him.

He had the grace to blush. “I brought some shoes, too.”

My running shoes were in the bottom of the bag. “Thank you. Thank you so much.”

“You’re still free to go, you know.”

“I know. But you know why—”

“Yeah, I know.” He nodded toward the bag of clothes. “Sorry I couldn’t find a coat.”

“That’s all right.” The only coat I owned was in his evidence lockup. “It’s plenty warm in here.”

“You may not be here much longer, though.”

My gaze sharpened. “Oh?”

“Looks like your story checks out. Your keycard was in your bag, like you said.”