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the streetlights outside. The condo was quiet. Mathers had long ago gone to bed. She’d pretty much pushed him away.
    “So crazy about that Frey girl,” he’d said over dinner. “If Nenad can’t track her down, believe me, nobody in the world can find her.”
    Windermere hadn’t said anything. She’d picked at the Greek salad he’d made them, tried not to think about the girl, how lonely she must feel, how desperate. Tried not to think about the people who must have driven her to that stupid, shitty end.
    Big Bird, Big Bird
.
Go fly away.
    Mathers scraped his plate. Studied her across the table. “You okay?”he said. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you get so caught up in a case.” He laughed. “And it isn’t really even a case.”
    She didn’t answer. Speared a piece of lettuce with her fork and examined it, couldn’t find the energy to take the process further. She knew she should talk to Mathers, tell him what she was feeling. Knew a good girlfriend would communicate with her partner, tell him what was on her mind. Couldn’t bring herself to do it.
    You sold your friend out for a stab at popularity. You let her walk away, and you laughed with the rest of them, even when you knew she was hurting. What’s Mathers going to say when you tell him? What’s he going to think of his girlfriend?
    “You know you can talk to me, right?” Mathers asked her. “Anything you’re thinking about, that’s what I’m here for.”
    She cracked open a beer. “Nothing to talk about, Mathers. Don’t go getting all soft and sappy on me. I’m not that kind of girl.”
    He gave it a moment. “Yeah,” he said. “Yeah, I know.”
    A couple minutes passed. Mathers stood, took his plate to the sink, came back to her, leaned down and wrapped her in his arms. Windermere stared out the window at the dark, stayed rigid, drank her beer.
    “Carla,” Mathers said. “Whatever you’re fighting yourself over, you can tell me. I can help.”
    “I just want to freaking know this girl’s all right,” she said, pushing the chair back, breaking free of his arms. “Can you figure that out for me, or no?”
    Mathers sighed. “Carla—”
    “Didn’t think so,” she said. Then she stood. “It’s fine, Derek. I just need to be alone.”
    •   •   •
    Now it was late. She’d killed a couple more beers, chased her tail thinking about Ashley Frey and that goddamn anonymizer, or whatever the hell it was called. Realized with some surprise she was craving a cigarette.
    She’d smoked only briefly in her life, a year at law school in Florida, when the stress threatened to overwhelm her, derail her career and send her spiraling back to Mississippi. To Wanda and Rene. She’d hated smoking, how dirty and weak and damn
needy
it made her feel, quit after that first year and hadn’t really looked back. She’d smoked a cigarette, once, when Stevens’s daughter had gone missing during the Carter Tomlin bank robbery case. Half a cigarette; she couldn’t make herself finish it.
    Now, though, she wanted one. More than one. A pack. She wanted to smoke and drink and feel self-destructive and miserable. And, screw it, that’s what she was going to do.
    Windermere dug out a pair of running shoes, pulled on her coat. Rode the elevator down to street level and stepped out into the night, the streets mostly empty and the air cold and raw. She wrapped her coat tighter and hurried down the block to the corner store, bought a pack of Marlboros and a little plastic lighter. Had to fiddle with the lighter a little bit to get it working—she was out of practice—but she made a flame. Lit the cigarette and inhaled, closed her eyes and held the smoke in her lungs. Wondered what Mathers would say if he saw her. What Stevens would say.
    She’d expected that the cigarette would make her feel better. It didn’t. She’d figured she could coast on those latent, long-ago feelings ofworthlessness and self-loathing as she smoked a couple, three