“What kind of ace? Is there something in particular you’re worried about?”

“Lots of things. Maybe something that happened when I was at work, or . . . I don’t know, there’s a lot that’s not a matter of public record, I don’t know what they might know, let alone how they might narrativize it.”

“Wouldn’t Porter have known the worst of it?”

She hugged herself tightly, head dropping to look at her bare feet on the hotel room carpet. “Maybe.”

“What is it, specifically, that you’re worried they might ask you about?”

He waited for her to answer, but all he got was tighter self-hugging.

“I was hoping I wouldn’t have to read your mind,” he said. “Is there something else that happened that they don’t know about? That I don’t know about?”

Still nothing. Normally, she’d been pretty good about honoring her agreement not to hide from him. It was understandable right now, all things considered, but it was hard not to be a little irritated by this backslide.

“Or are you worried about something . . . maybe a little more personal?”

She finally turned to him, her face a mask of guilt and fear, like he’d accused her of shoplifting. Okay, so maybe it was the fear that these goons might whip out something a little more personal and use it against her.

“It’s not a big deal,” he said, brushing her hair behind her ear.

“What’s not a big deal?”

“If the personal side of things is what you’re worried about.”

“What am I worried about?” She was looking at him like he’d just revealed he was playing for the other team.

“Listen, I know . . .”

“What?” she snapped, backing away from him and up against the window. “What do you know?”

“I know you’re in love with him.”

Even as he said it, he wasn’t sure why he did. It certainly wasn’t out of spite or bitterness. It was just an observation, a statement of truth. At first she stared at him, incredulous, then without a word, brushed past him.

“Cora . . .”

She didn’t look at him, marching straight into the bathroom and slamming the door behind her.

“Cora,” he said, jimmying the handle to the door and finding it locked. “Please, open the door.”

This went on for nearly an hour.

By the time the digital clock by the bed ticked 10:23 P.M., the situation had not worsened, nor had it improved. No sounds of self-harm, no indication she had ceased breathing. Kaveh sat with his back to the wall next to the bathroom door, arms resting on his knees, staring at the ceiling and thinking, The twenty-one-year-old-ness was bound to resurface sooner or later.

“Cora,” he tried for the twelve billionth time. “Why are you doing this?”

Silencio.