I glance at the open sleeper sofa. All I’ve got to do is clear away a few piles of clothing, a half empty container of chicken lo mein, a laptop, one television remote control, one Roku control, and assorted snail mail. Instead of trying to find the energy to clear an actual space for myself on the bed I fall onto a small pile of sweatshirts (clean sweatshirts, by the way).

And of course all of a sudden, precisely when I close my eyes, I feel wide-awake. And of course I can think of nothing but the kidnapping and mugging at the park. I see Orlov, his white-blond hair, his firm grip on Tyonna. I see Nina’s fashionably unfashionable shoes. I can almost feel the sprinkler water on my face. I see Tyonna’s happy little face. Then the knife, I see Orlov’s knife.

I’ve got to stop. I’ve got to sleep.

Instead I see the black Mercedes pulling away. I watch Blumenthal’s cold, unmoving face as he icily orders me around. I worry about Sabryna and our friendship. I haven’t had a friend as close as Sabryna since grammar school.

I consider popping an Ambien. I consider popping a Xanax. I consider pouring myself a small glass of special-occasion Chivas. Then a brainstorm, what the shrinks call a breakthrough.

I realize what might really put me at peace: knowing what Orlov and Nina said to each other in that recorded conversation.

I grab my cell phone and call Leon Blumenthal.

“Lucy, what are you calling for?”

No hello. Just that.

“This is important,” I say. “Did you get that Russian conversation between Orlov and Nina translated?”

“Of course I did.”

“So what were they saying?”

There is a pause.

“What were they saying?” I repeat.

There is a shorter pause. Then Blumenthal speaks. His voice is quick and quiet. “I can’t tell you. It’s classified.”

“I can’t believe you said that. You’ve got to be kidding!”

“No, I’m not kidding.”

“Well, just give me a general idea of the conversation.”

“I’m sorry. I can’t,” he says.

“You’re not sorry,” I say. “You’re just an asshole.”

“Lucy, listen…this is official NYPD info. This—”

“‘Official NYPD info’…Bullshit. And even if it is ‘official,’ it’s NYPD info that I supplied,” I shout.

I’m furious. I call him an asshole once more. I stammer a bit and say, “This was my information.”

My voice is so loud that I’ve woken Willie. He and his game console are standing at the bedroom door. I click off my phone and take Willie into my arms. We hug.

“I’m sorry, sweetie,” I say. “Mom was having an argument.”

“Yeah, I sorta thought so.”

“I’m sorry I woke you.”

“I’m not,” he says.

Then I walk him back to his room.