Wordlessly, I slid my own envelope across the table. I watched his face while he went through the photos, keeping the manila folder tight against his chest, as though everyone in the bar were dying to see them. It took a while. Jackal shot more than he needed to, strictly speaking. Finally, Carrigan folded the envelope in half twice, not carefully, the bump of the USB drive visible through the paper, and shoved the entire packet into his briefcase. I wasn’t sorry to see them go.

When Carrigan looked up, he caught my eye and glared at me. “Why are you staring?”

“You look different with your clothes on.”

“Fuck you,” he said. “You don’t have to enjoy it so much.” He studied me for a second. “There wasn’t even really an abusive ex-boyfriend, was there?”

I ignored him. “I ordered champagne for the occasion. Well, it’s sparkling wine, not champagne. But it’ll do. I’ll even buy.”

“I might as well order the bottle then,” he snapped, “if you’re paying with my money.”

“Whatever you want.” I could afford to be generous.

In the end, he settled on a ginger ale. I was surprised he’d even bothered to order a drink. I’d expected him to drop the money and bail, threaten to hunt me down, make me pay. Instead, he studied the menu like we were on a date, glaring at the cream-colored card. Once his order had been taken, he rubbed his hands across his face. “How did you ever get mixed up in something like this?”

“I would’ve expected you, of all people, to know.”

The waitress brought my champagne in a little saucer, and I held it up to the candle in the center of our table, flickering through a red glass votive. I twirled the golden juice back and forth, admired the slim line of my wrist and my long nails, now painted blue, in the light. I took a sip. It stuck in my mouth like honey.

“The hell is that supposed to mean?”

“I mean,” I said, “when did you find out your wife’s last name?”

“Jesus H., you miserable—”

“First date? Third date? Before you got her number?”

Carrigan was silent for a long time. “It’s not the same thing.”

“Of course not. I only used you for a week, not your whole life. Do me a favor, stop pretending that last name is a burden to you.”

Carrigan’s mouth opened, and whatever he was going to say was going to be nasty, delightfully so, but I held up a hand.

“Besides,” I said, taking another sip of the sparkling wine, letting the bubbles fill my mouth and float all the way to my nose, “you should be grateful. Now you get to feel angry instead of feeling guilty.”

Carrigan’s face was very sour. “You took a helluva chance I didn’t turn you over to the police.”