I flipped through the photographs while Jackal drank. I had to admit, he was more than competent at his job: I recognized a judge with a girl who looked underage but wasn’t, a famous tennis player with a woman old enough to be his grandmother, and pictures of Lou from every angle, sometimes with the girls, sometimes waiting in the lobby of the hotel, plenty of her in the office. But no pictures of me.

“I’m not in any of these,” I said. Jackal didn’t say anything. When I looked over, his eyes were closed and his head was slumped against the back seat of the couch. “Jackal. Where are the photographs with me in them?”

“There aren’t any.”

“What?” I sat up. “Are you trying to pull something on me here? Come back in two months, looking for another score when you blow through this cash?”

Jackal crooked one eye open. “Jesus Christ, Jo,” he said. “There aren’t any of you because I deleted them. From the SIM card, anywhere. Nothing to tie you to the business. In case.”

“In case what?”

“In case you changed your mind,” he clarified. “If you wanted to come with me. Or even if you changed your mind one day without me.” He put a hand over his eyes.

“Oh,” I said, not sure what to say. I stared at the photographs in my lap. “That’s . . . well. Thank you. I don’t need it, but . . . thank you.”

Jackal shrugged, eyes still closed.

“When will you leave?” I asked him, reaching out and touching his thigh. Even now, drinking red from a bottle on my couch, Jackal was dressed in a nice button-down shirt, slacks, dress shoes. If I hadn’t seen differently myself, I would believe that’s what he slept in.

“Tonight,” he said, and then took another slug from the bottle. He patted the couch next to him, and I scooched closer, putting my feet into his lap.

“That soon,” I said.

“Are you asking me to spend the night?” He popped my right heel out of the shoe, began to massage my foot before sliding the stiletto all the way off.

“No,” I said, “I am not.”

Jackal uncased my other foot, and I beat time on his thighs with my toes. There was a scar in the webbing between his thumb and forefinger on his left hand, and I pressed the ball of my foot into it, feeling for scar tissue, feeling for the story it would give up. I tilted my face to kiss him, and Jackal gave me a light peck, not trying to start anything. I sank back into the couch.

“Where will you go?” I asked him.

“Somewhere that isn’t here,” he said, pushing my feet off his lap. I hadn’t expected him to tell me. I didn’t really want to know. “It’s not that much money.”