Vincent thanked her, and the cap made a brittle splitting noise as he opened it, and Vincent said, ‘So what’s been happening, Terry?’

Page was hunched forward, elbows on the desk. He said, ‘Okay, look. Something you have to understand.’ Pointing at Vincent now. ‘I didn’t set this up. I don’t set things up. I put people in touch, sure. But I didn’t set this up. All I’m doing … I’m doing my best to get out.’

Vincent said, ‘All right.’

The finger stayed there a second longer, and then Page took it back. He seemed scared and tired. His face was drawn and had an orange cast to it, Trumpish, and he was looking around too much, like there were other people in here, all leaning close to listen.

Erin said, ‘Why don’t you just give us the whole story. And then if you have any caveats about what you were or weren’t involved with, I’m happy to sit and listen to them, too.’

No answer.

Erin said, ‘My father died because of something worth thirty million dollars. What was it?’

Page blinked, sat back a little. His mouth formed a few different shapes, looking for a way into the next sentence. He said, ‘Lamar’s guy Freeman was running it. You know Casey Freeman?’

Erin said, ‘I did. He’s dead now.’

Page said, ‘He was … Freeman was running it. He brought in someone else, too—a security guy who’d worked for Eugene.’

Vincent said, ‘Wayne Forsyth?’

‘Yeah, Wayne. That’s right. He used to do his security for him, up at the Santa Barbara place.’

Vincent said, ‘What was the job?’

Page looked away and licked his lips. He said, ‘I’m just … I’m trapped in it, all right? I didn’t want anything to turn out like it has.’

He looked away, and Vincent saw his eyes fill—a worm of fluid along his lower lids. There were shelves on the wall behind the desk with photos of Page and Natasha, diplomas framed behind glass, a couple of silver trophies on little wooden plinths. All the markers of the good life, and yet he’d needed more: he couldn’t close the gap between himself and perfection without dipping his toe in something illicit. Maybe just a touch, and now everything was on the line. Maximum collateral. He probably didn’t even think about it until it was too late. Now he was sitting here with his temples throbbing, finally seeing the cost of everything.

Vincent said it again: ‘What was the job?’