“And you never use the nearest phone box. I followed you once, too, remember—that time you forgot your wallet and I thought you’d need money for the phone. You were using the one on Howe Street.”

“I thought that was the nearest.”

She hadn’t even seemed to be listening to his excuses anymore. Later, he’d realized she’d been working things out even as they’d spoken. Grasping the significance of all Paul’s little slipups, here in the moonlit wasteland he had trailed her to.

“Last week, when you came back from the phone box, you hid a piece of paper under your mattress. I saw you do it, and I looked at it later. Who’s G?”

“Are you accusing me of cheating now?” Paul had hoped to divert the conversation that way. Another woman was a better explanation for his weekly check-ins with Glover than the truth.

“Nobody does things like that unless they’ve got something to hide. I shrugged it off at the time, but now . . .” She’d almost run out of breath, her palm pressed to her throat. “Now . . .”

“Nat, let’s go home and talk. Please. It’s getting cold, we’re both tired.”

“I’m not tired.” She’d drawn herself up tall. “I want to know why you’ve followed me. Why you’re asking questions about Billie. Why you make secret phone calls and write notes in weird code, and why you never talk about yourself. You always change the subject when I ask about your family or . . .” Her words had disintegrated into tears then, and Paul had realized, with a plunge of his stomach, that she knew. He’d let her get too close and he’d made bad choices, and they weren’t even balanced on that cliff edge between truth and lies anymore. They were sliding into a ravine below.

“I love you,” he’d whispered.

“Who are you?”

“I want to protect you.”

She’d screamed: “Tell me who you are.”

He’d touched her just to try to calm her down, but she’d screamed again and beaten her fists against his chest. He’d grabbed her wrists, tried to hold her. She’d twisted away and he’d felt the friction-burn of her skin under his grasp.

Stepping back, he’d realized he was crying too.

“You’re with the police,” she’d said.

Paul had let himself have one more moment of borrowed time before he’d nodded.

Nathalie had bent at the waist, hands covering her face. “Oh, my God.”

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. Please believe I never meant to hurt you.”

“So all of it . . . the last three years . . .” She’d thrust her fingers into her hair as if to stop her skull exploding.

“It wasn’t you I was investigating. It was your brother, and the search fund. He made himself untouchable. It was the only way . . .”