Even though the apartment was full of Rachel’s things and some that Grant presumed belonged to the Norwegian transplant, it didn’t feel cluttered. The bookshelves were lined with paperbacks and an occasional hardcover bestseller. Two tiny plants served as bookends and Rachel had managed to keep an orchid alive by placing it in a corner of the window that got morning light. A few framed art posters hung on the walls—the obligatory one any millennial had from a Met show, but Grant was pleased to see the Tate Modern represented as well.

He peeked into the well-stocked fridge—there was certainly enough on the shelves to fashion a meal (sandwich and salad fixings, Chinese takeout cartons), along with a corked half-filled bottle of chardonnay. He found the menus Rachel mentioned—there must have been thirty different cuisines available within in a ten-block radius—and opened a cupboard to discover a box of English breakfast tea.

He found a kettle under the sink, filled it with water, and set it atop the stove. As it heated up, he continued his unguided tour, moving toward a corner where a small table served as the dining area and Rachel’s makeshift office.

Her laptop was open beside a bottle of water and a box of little cookies in the shape of bunny rabbits. Grant couldn’t resist trying one. The bunny was actually tasty enough that he feared its mates might join it in his stomach later for a postmidnight snack. The kettle whistled him back to the kitchen and he prepared the tea. A couple of sips later, he crossed to a wooden chest against the wall opposite from the window.

The smallest Christmas tree Grant had ever seen was perched on it. Barely two feet tall, Rachel had decorated it with a few ornaments, blinking colored lights, and a gold star to top it off. Grant reached out to touch it, wondering what kind of synthetic material it was made from. He was surprised to find genuine pine needles.

“It’s real, believe it or not,” said Rachel behind him.

He turned to see that his daughter had changed into jeans, a T-shirt, and a pullover sweater. She’d taken down her hair from the professional bun she’d worn at the precinct and put on fresh lipstick.

God, she looks like her mother, thought Grant—remembering the girl he had fallen in love with all those years back in London.

“They have some even smaller,” she continued. “Space is at a premium in Manhattan—especially at Christmas.”

“At least you didn’t get one of those pink-colored ones with the fake snow.”