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thing she had done in her life.
    She would never see him again. She would never sit across from him at dinner, never touch him or worry over his inability to match his own clothes. She would never listen to his soft snores, and she would never feel the length and weight of his body on hers. They had tapered off over the last years, sex coming along rarely, but she’d always thought that they were going through a phase from which they would inevitably emerge, just as they had emerged from Cairo intact—or mostly intact. There would be no more phases, no more of the rhythms of living with a man who, for twenty years, had been the central figure in her life.
    There was a hole in her stomach and an empty space in her skull that nothing and no one, certainly not Stan, would ever be able to fill. And guilt. So much damned guilt.
    She wasn’t sure how long this went on. As she gradually recovered she realized that her pillow was soaking wet, so she took Emmett’s pillow, and that brought on fresh tears. Eventually, she went to the bathroom for tissues and stared into the mirror, wiping at her splotchy face. She hardly even saw herself, but the reflection helped. The tears began to dry. She took a breath.
    He’s dead.
    It’s your fault.
    It’s Stan’s fault.
    In that moment this seemed reasonable—that her yearlong affair had pulled that trigger—though she knew it wasn’t true. Her affair only ensured that Emmett’s final moments would be miserable.
    Stan had called Emmett. Actually called him, months afterward, to announce his love for her. Stan had always been old-fashioned, but Jesus.
    She returned to the bedroom, flipped on the bedside lamp, and took out her phone. She turned it on, watching the start-up screen until it lit up with messages: six missed calls, two from Glenda, one from Ray, and one each from other friends, Mary, Tracey, and Anita. She ignored the voice mails and went through her contacts until she found Stan. Two rings and, as always, he was a man who answered with identification, even at three in the morning: “Stan Bertolli.” Voice achingly familiar.
    “Sophie Kohl,” she said, then listened to his breathing.
    Finally, he said, “Wow. Sophie. It’s good to hear your voice.”
    “You talked to Emmett today.”
    “No.”
    The outright no threw her. “When did you last talk to Emmett?”
    “Never—I mean, not since you left. Are you all right?”
    “Shouldn’t I be? Yes, I … well, no. Not right now. But I was angry.”
    “Angry?”
    “I was, but not now. Emmett’s dead.”
    “Emmett’s … what ?”
    “We were having dinner and a man walked into the restaurant and shot him in the head and the chest.”
    “Oh, God. Sophie. I’m sorry, I—” He paused. “What can I do?”
    “There’s nothing you can do. I just had to talk to you.”
    “Right. Of course.”
    “They gave me a babysitter.”
    “They do that.”
    “She fed me and put me to bed, but I can’t do this.”
    “I’m coming. Next flight out.”
    “No, Stan. I’m not calling for that.”
    “Of course I will. Anything you need. You know that.”
    “Just tell me why you told him. Now, of all times.”
    He paused again. “Told him what?”
    He was being coy, she thought. Diplomatic. But he was a spook, not a diplomat, so perhaps it was better to call it lying. “About us. You told him about us, and you said you were in love.”
    His silence this time was longer, and it was a silence she recognized. The gears were moving in his head. He said, “Sophie, I didn’t tell him anything about us. You know I wouldn’t do that.”
    “Then why did he tell me otherwise?”
    “I don’t know. Maybe … I don’t know. He told you that I told him?”
    “One of the last things he said.”
    An intake of breath. “Maybe he was just fishing. Maybe he heard it somewhere else. He certainly didn’t hear it from me.”
    She wasn’t sure she believed him, then she wasn’t sure she wanted to believe him. If Emmett had