Tish's boots lay kicked off in front of the door.

A bottle of red stood open on the kitchen counter, two glasses and the corkscrew beside it. One had been drunk out of, a lipstick stain on the rim.

The gas fireplace crackled. A black slip of a dress lay draped over the back of the sofa, a heavy winter coat beside it. The TV news on mute.

The ethereal wail of sirens floated up from forty stories below.

He followed a trail of scattered rose petals from the kitchenette down the hall to the bedroom, creeping heel-to-toe, heel-to-toe. His floors had never creaked but caution was wise. The soles of his boots crushed flower petals, leaving powdery red smears on the hardwood.

He pushed on the bathroom door, swept the room with the gun. He pulled the shower curtain aside, checked behind the door in the mirror.

Empty.

Colder down here, the further he got from the fireplace.

He opened the next door, the hall closet. Nothing but toiletries and towels and stuff from his past he'd never gotten rid of: trophies and school papers and knickknacks from trips, old short stories gathering dust, school yearbooks he hadn't looked at in over a decade.

At the end of the hall the bedroom door thumped against the jam. Open just a crack, wide enough to peer through. The sirens were louder. Blue and red flashing in the darkness beyond the door. If Barclay was still here, he already knew Martin was armed, that he was approaching down the hall.

"I've got a gun, you motherfucker! You try anything, I'll shoot!"

The door thumped against the jam.

He took two wide steps toward the bedroom.

The door creaked open slowly.

Even if Barclay stood behind it, Martin would have the upper hand. He could kick the door wide and go in blasting. Still, the spit at the back of his throat was thick with terror. His heart thudded in his ears.

He booted the door. It swung into the room without impedance and struck the doorstop with a springy sound.

The cold struck him immediately. One of the windows was shattered, curtains fluttering in the wind. He smelled the East River, which was good, because it masked the acrid copper tang of Tish's blood.

Even before he flicked on the light, he could see her in flashes of blue and red from the police cars below.

Barclay had splayed her out on the white linen, her head resting on the pillows, her limbs spread wide as if she'd collapsed on the bed after a long day of driving and fallen asleep waiting for him.

But he couldn't pretend she was warm and alive and hungry for him because he'd seen it happen. He'd watched Barclay strangle her while he was stuck in traffic, arguably the most mundane activity in the world contrasted with the most brutal, the most savage—the yin to Barclay's yang.

The man eats the woman and the woman eats the man.