There was nothing on my desk. The absence reassured me. I reminded myself that, had there not been an accident last night, I’d be confessing to Mort right now. In that alternate timeline, word of my downfall was already circulating among my colleagues, fanning out to the distant reaches of the profession.

Someone came up quietly behind me and I turned, I thought, a little too suddenly.

“Whitney,” said Gordon, and he glanced about, “have you heard?”

“No, what?”

“Something’s happened to Lane. He’s gone.”

“Gone?”

“I mean, he’s dead,” Gordon said. “He’s gone.”

Last night took on a stark factuality it had resisted all morning, as if the fall had had a chance not to be real until Gordon put it in words.

My hands went to my mouth. “What happened?”

“He fell, or something. I’m sorry, I’m not really sure.”

“Whitney?” We both looked at Mort with a start. “Want to come to my office for a minute?”

Mort pulled the chair out for me and waited until I’d sat before settling into his spot behind the desk. As opposed to the usual lamplight, he had the overhead fluorescents on, and he looked awful, his skin all sore with eczema, soggy bruised bags hanging from his eyes.

I said, “Gordon told me.”

“It’s terrible, terrible.”

“He fell?”

“It wasn’t the fall that killed him, probably more like a hemorrhage. I’m not sure how much you really want to know.”

I shook my head.

“The police are at his apartment as we speak,” Mort said. “We’ll have more information later today.”

I saw a gloved hand reaching for the wineglass, a brilliant eye detecting residue on the rim.

“I know you worked closely with him,” Mort continued. “Did you notice anything? I mean, was he acting strangely?”

“No,” I said, “not really. Why, do you think—”

“It’s a possibility. It’s something they have to consider.”

“I guess they’ll consider everything.”

“Yeah.”

I zoned out on the papers covering Mort’s desk, concentrating on the story of Lane’s suicide, but it didn’t creep.

“I didn’t know him all that well,” I said. “It was pretty professional between us.”

“All the same, no one will mind if you want to take a few days off.”

“Thanks.”

“Christ.” Mort dug his fingers into his eyes with an ancient fatigue I’d never seen in him before. “I feel like taking one myself.” He shook it off and added, “I’ve written down the number of a counseling service, if you’d like to talk to someone.”

“Alright.”

“And you know my door is always open.”

“Will you let me know what the police tell you?”

“Sure thing.”