Mia jumped, craned her head around to see her boss, everyone’s boss, Milo Burns, standing beside her desk, arms crossed over his chest. As usual, Milo looked like he’d slept in his trademark khakis and golf shirt—Augusta green today—always short-sleeved, even in this early spring that had dumped truckloads of arctic air on the East Coast, no end in sight. He told everyone he was born bald as an egg, a lie of course; everyone knew he religiously shaved his head. Mia both respected him and liked him because he thrived on off-the-wall ideas, some of them his own, some of them amazingly clever, but he never stinted on praise when one of the staff came up with a winner. And he was a natural debater, could take the other side of any question and have you nodding in agreement before you caught yourself. He lived in the Village with his new wife, a bright young tax attorney from Hong Kong, named Kiki, about Mia’s age. Milo called her Lotus Blossom. She was small, delicate, and firmly in control of her husband. Seeing her holding Milo’s big paw for the first time had made Mia shake her head at what life dished up. Milo loved Chinese food, a good thing since Kiki was a gourmet cook of all things Chinese, her steamed pork buns to die for. He’d brought his own birthday cake to the press room, claimed it was chocolate filled with chunks of crispy fortune cookies, with Hunan icing. No one wanted much to try it when he offered, a smirk on his face.

He picked up the photos, frowned. “What are these photos? Quality’s crap, we can’t use them, whoever they are. Who are they?”

Mia gently removed the photos from her boss’s hand.

“It’s something I’m checking into in my spare time, no worries, Milo. They’re not work related.”

He gave her the stink eye. “You still have spare time with the deadline I gave you? It’s for your blog, isn’t it? Lucky for you it’s so popular and brings readership to the Guardian. I expect your first five-thousand-word background piece to run in this Sunday’s edition. No flu, no colds, just work.”

Milo picked up one of the photos again, studied it more closely. He cocked his head. “Hmm. You know, this one guy looks familiar, even though it’s only his profile. Who is he?”

It was on the tip of her tongue to tell him what she suspected, but no, it was way too soon. “That’s what I don’t know, Milo. If I find out who he is, and what he is, I’ll tell you.”