“I’m okay.”

She returned to the chair, sipped more of the smokey liquor.

“You want to stay tonight?” he asked.

On occasion she’d spend the night here. Sometimes on the couch, sometimes in bed next to him. Maybe it was the fluidized air of the Clinitron, maybe it was the simple act of lying next to another human being—she didn’t know the reason—but she never slept better than when she slept here. She hadn’t enjoyed being close to another man since her most recent boyfriend, Nick. She and Rhyme would lie together and talk. She’d tell him about cars, about her pistol matches, about her mother and her goddaughter. About her father’s full life and sad, protracted death. She’d ante up far more personal information than he. But that was all right. She loved listening to him say whatever he wanted to. His mind was astonishing. He’d tell her about old New York, about Mafia hits the rest of the world had never heard about, about crime scenes so clean they seemed hopeless until the searchers found the single bit of dust, the fingernail, the dot of spit, the hair or fiber that revealed who the perp was or where he lived—well, revealed these facts to Rhyme, not necessarily anyone else. No, his mind never stopped. She knew that before the injury he’d roam the streets of New York looking for samples of soil or glass or plants or rocks—anything that might help him solve cases. It was as if that restlessness had moved from his useless legs into his mind, which roamed the city—in his imagination—well into the night.

But tonight was different. Rhyme was distracted. She didn’t mind him ornery—which was good because he was ornery a lot. But she didn’t like him being elsewhere. She sat on the edge of the bed.

He began to say what he’d apparently asked her here for. “Sachs . . . Lon told me. About what happened at the airport.”

She shrugged.

“There’s nothing you could’ve done except gotten yourself killed. You did the right thing, going for cover. He fired one for range and would’ve gotten you with the second shot.”

“I had two, three seconds. I could’ve hit him. I know I could’ve.”

“Don’t be reckless, Sachs. That bomb—”

The fervent look in her eyes silenced him. “I want to get him, whatever it takes. And I have a feeling you want to get him just as much. I think you’d take chances too.” She added with cryptic significance, “Maybe you are taking chances.”

This had a greater reaction than she’d expected. He blinked, looked away. But he said nothing else, sipped his scotch.

On impulse, she asked, “Can I ask something? If you don’t want me to you can tell me to clam up.”

“Come on, Sachs. We’ve got secrets, you and me? I don’t think so.”

Eyes on the floor, she said, “I remember once I was telling you about Nick. How I felt about him and so on. How what happened between us was so hard.”