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any self-consciousness either of us had, exploring the landscapes of each other’s past, talking about books—mine, mostly (his interest and knowledge were beyond flattering)—and art, and travel. It was effortless, comfortable. When we finally left, workdays looming, the snow had stopped and the frigid night lay out before us slick and crystalline as he walked me home. He reached for my hand and I let him take it. His skin was smooth and dry, his grip so hard and strong it felt as though his bones were made from metal. Heat flooded my body as our fingers entwined.
    At the door to my building, I turned to face him. I’ll call you , I expected him to say. Or, Thanks for a nice evening . Something vague, something that left it all up in the air, something that later would have me wondering if the night had really been as special as I thought.
    “Can I see you tonight?” he said. What? There were games to be played, protective walls to be erected, nonchalance to be feigned. He’d clearly misplaced his rulebook.
    He must have registered my surprise. “Honestly, Isabel, I don’t have time for games.” Did he sound weary, in spite of his kind eyes, his gentle hand on my arm? “If you don’t want to see me again, in your heart you already know that. So just say it now. No hard feelings. But if you do—just say yes.”
    I had to laugh. “Yes,” I said. “I want to see you again. Tonight.” I had plans—just dinner with Jack. I’d cancel them. I would bend and shift and let this man into my life. Why not?
    “I’ll pick you up at eight,” he said, taking my hand and pressing it to his mouth. “I can’t wait.”
    He left me swooning in the soft glow of street lamps as he walked quickly up my street and then turned the corner without looking back. I halfway didn’t expect to see him again. As I entered my building, I was already steeling myself for the disappointment that surely lay ahead.
    R ICK HAD BEEN taken into an inner office in handcuffs; he hadn’t even turned to look at me. He hadn’t even said one word, though I’d yelled after him, desperate, pathetic.
    “Rick, please tell me what’s going on!” I watched until he’d passed through the doorway with two agents and was gone.
    “We have questions, Mrs. Raine,” said the female agent. “So you will need you to wait here.” She took me firmly by the arm and led me back to Marcus’s desk.
    I think it’s fair to say I lost it a little. I ranted, demanded answers, raged about Marcus’s disappearance. All the while, the tall blonde just looked at me like I was the most pitiable sight she’d ever seen. I eventually wound down, ran out of juice.
    “Just have a seat, Mrs. Raine. There’s a lot to talk about,” she’d said, long on condescension, short on illumination. There was something strange about her. And she didn’t seem quite official. She seemed more like a stripper with a cheap, dirty kind of beauty. I wouldn’t have been surprised to see her drop into a deep, wide squat, start taking off her clothes. She held me in her gaze for longer than seemed appropriate, then she strode out, all legs and attitude. She’d closed the door behind her.
    Exhausted, numb, I allowed myself to slump in the chair and watch through the glass as hard drives were removed, files confiscated, desk drawers emptied of their contents. It was all very rote, once the guns had been holstered. No one seemed overly hurried, everyone clearly with expertise in their assigned task. All the agents avoided looking at me. After a while, the whole situation took on a strange unreality, like something I was watching on television, something I’d turned on too late and didn’t fully understand. I felt the bubbling urge to laugh at my predicament, followed by the urge to scream.
    I noticed that none of the other employees arrived for work that morning. I imagined they were being turned away or taken into custody in the hallway downstairs. But I didn’t know.
    It occurred