Outside, he looked older. The light of day accentuated his wrinkles, proving that even Philip Ashworth had to age. I found this comforting.

The driver held the door for me as I ducked into the car. While Philip went around to his side, I glanced up and saw a woman looking down from the Ashworths’ third-floor corner window. Not the housekeeper, and not Anna Brody, although the woman in the window had the same coloring. She was an older, duller version of Anna, pale, not pretty, an earlier, rougher draft. This was my sense of her, but it all happened fast, the way she raised her hand as if to wave good-bye, and then, as Philip climbed in the back with me, she pressed her hand to the glass. It was a sad gesture, I thought, and one that only I saw. She must have noticed me watching, because she abruptly stepped away, and the curtain she’d been holding open fell back into place.

“What luck,” he said, “getting to spend some time with you.”

“Well, I appreciate the ride.” I tried to quietly connect my seat belt. It made a loud click. Philip Ashworth slipped his on without a sound.

“So, Hank, what do we got?”

Hank was the driver. “Ray Charles.”

“I hope you like Ray Charles,” Philip said to me.

“Yes,” I said. “He was a compelling argument for being blind.”

Thankfully, Philip let my comment go. I forgave myself the odd choice of words, because my mind was still focused on the woman in the window. We’re the only ones here, he had said. Apparently, the woman in the window didn’t count.

Ray Charles came over the car stereo—raw, soulful, at a soft volume—as we turned onto the Brooklyn Bridge.

“Comfortable?” Philip asked.

“Yes,” I said as I sank into the soft black leather seat. “Very.”

Philip was in the middle of explaining his whirlwind schedule— back in the States for the day, a quick stop at the house to freshen up before an important meeting in midtown, then a rush to catch the last flight for Paris to rejoin Anna and Sophie in the South of France—when the traffic on the bridge came to a stop.

“Construction, sir, or an accident, I can’t tell which.”

Philip craned his neck to see the traffic situation on the bridge and said, “She talks about you all the time.”

“Excuse me?”

“My wife talks about you all the time.”

“No-o.”

“Oh, yes, it’s always ‘Kate this’ and ‘Kate that.’ She’s always mentioning you and your husband.”

“I wouldn’t know why.”

“She seems to think you have it all.”

I couldn’t help laughing. It was one thing for her to flatter me with such nonsense, but to brainwash her husband as well?

“How well do you know her?” he asked.

“Not very.”