He rubbed her back reassuringly, still holding her. “They called me. I thought something happened to you—you were hurt.”

She shook her head and buried her face one more time in his shoulder.

“It’s bad,” she said.

“You need a lawyer,” said Linus.

She pulled back a bit to swipe away her tears and look at him, his fair brown skin and concerned eyes. “I have a lawyer,” she said. “You.”

He almost smiled.

They walked out an unmarked door on River Street, past a television reporter scrolling through her phone with her earpiece dangling from her blouse collar between broadcasts, unnoticed. The rain had cleared out the humidity overnight, cooling the air. Odessa leaned on Linus on the short walk to Newark Penn Station, where they caught a PATH train one stop into Harrison. They didn’t speak much. Odessa didn’t remember much of their short journey. Exhaustion was starting to hit her now.

She thought she might feel relief upon closing their apartment door on the world outside, but it didn’t happen. Linus asked if she wanted to eat anything, but she sure didn’t. She climbed into bed with her clothes on, something she had done once before in her adult life, when she had the flu.

She was in a dark funk. Linus set a glass of water on the nightstand for her. She heard him fumbling with something on the dresser, then realized he was unplugging the coaxial cable from the television. He didn’t want her to watch.

But she had her phone and charger still. She looked up the news and watched as much as she could bear. Cameras were outside Leppo’s house, recording Walt’s wife weeping as she loaded their kids into the car and drove away.

Linus came in to check on her and discovered her on her phone. He made her promise to unplug and sleep. She nodded, but then he remained sitting on the edge of the bed. He wanted to talk. Or rather: He wanted to listen.

She told him an abbreviated version of what happened. One thing she shared with him that she’d neglected to tell the FBI: She said she thought she saw something flee Leppo’s dying body. She told him this to gauge his reaction, to test out how bizarre this sounded. He didn’t give her much facially, but after a few moments of silent consideration, he told her that he thought she should speak with someone else, in addition to a lawyer. He meant a therapist.

Her spirit sank. She wanted this to make sense. “I saw it,” she said. “I smelled it.”

“Saw what, though?” he said. “A heat mirage, you said?”

“Not quite that. But like that. A ripple. Something.”

“I think you were—understandably—distraught, and your senses played a trick on you.”

“I know it’s funky,” she said. “It’s really hard to explain.”

“What did they say about it?”