Paulette began walking again. “Don’t tempt me,” she said tightly. Then she stopped and turned to face Miriam. “What are you going to do?” she asked bluntly.

“I was hoping you could help me.” Miriam paused for a moment, then continued: “Did you get the job?”

“As a paralegal?” Paulette shrugged. “I didn’t get that one, but I’ve got another interview this afternoon,” she added self-consciously.

“Well.” Miriam paused. “How would you like another job? Starting today?”

“Doing what?” Paulette asked cautiously.

“As my self-propelled totally legal insurance policy,” said Miriam. “I need an agent, someone who can work for me on this side when I’m locked up being Princess Buttercup in a palace with toilets consisting of a drafty hole in the wall. You’re clean, they didn’t pin anything on you, and now that we know who the hell we’re up against, we can make sure that you stay that way. What I’ve got in mind for the job will mostly involve handling nonstolen, nonillegal goods that I want to sell, keeping records, paying taxes, and making like a legitimate import/export business. But it’ll also involve planting some records, very explicit records, in places where the families can’t get their hands on them—without getting caught.” Miriam stopped again, thinking. “I can pay,” she added. “I’m supposed to be very rich now.”

Paulette grinned. “This wouldn’t have something to do with you bearing a grudge against the asshole who fired us both, would it?”

“Could be.” Miriam thrust her hands deep in her pockets and tried to look innocent.

“When does it start and what does it pay?”

“It starts fifteen minutes ago, and if you want to discuss pay and conditions, let’s go find a Starbucks and talk about it over a coffee…”

Miriam became increasingly depressed on the train back to New York. It was late in the year, and darkness was already falling as the train raced through the bleak New England countryside. Soon the snow would be falling thick and deep, burying the bare branches beneath a layer of deadening numbness. She popped out one of the Atenolol tablets that Roland had given her and a couple of Tylenol, swallowing them with the aid of a Coke from the bar. She felt like autumn, too: The train was carrying her south toward a bleak world where she’d be enveloped in the snow of—well, maybe it was stretching the metaphor past breaking point. Only forty-four hours, and I’ll be seeing Roland again, she thought. Forty-four hours? She brightened for a moment, then lapsed into even deeper gloom. Forty-four hours, forty of which would be spent in the company of…of…