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"It's late," Laszlo goes on, to Daphne now, "and half this bar is paying way too much attention to you right now. My wife would like you to get to your front door in one piece. Do it for her."

Daphne looks at me.

"Go ahead," I say. "For me. I'll bring you a croissant tomorrow."

"Two."

"Two."

She breathes out through her nose, obviously still not convinced. But in the end she picks her bag up and puts it over her shoulder.

"Fine. But he stays in his car." She points the tattered umbrella at Rafe like it's a weapon. "He doesn't get out. He doesn't walk me in or speak to me."

"He wasn't going to speak," Tomek says. "He never⁠—"

"Okay now," I say with false cheerfulness. All I want is for Tomek to shut up.

Rafe of course hasn't said a word this whole time. He's standing three feet away with his jacket over his arm, his eyes on her, and when she says he doesn't speak, something happens at the corner of his mouth that on any other man I'd call the beginnings of a smile.

He tips his head half an inch. That's all she's getting.

Outside, the cold hits my bare legs. Tomek unlocks a car and holds the door open for Daphne. She gets in without looking at any of us. Rafe watches her door shut and the taillights pull away, then goes to his own car and follows them out.

"He's going to sit outside her building all night, isn’t he?" I say.

"Most likely," Laszlo says.

"I thought you said he doesn't like anyone, including women."

"He doesn't. I'd assumed he didn’t have a heart, or maybe something chemically wrong with him." A pause. "Apparently the cure was a redhead with a tacky cocktail in hand."

He opens my door and I sink into the heated seats. It's total bliss having a rich husband. My thighs are cold and I'm tired. Also, I'm still not sure whether I'm angry at him or not.

"I wonder what happened to him?" I ask when he's behind the wheel. "The following-a-woman-home thing to make sure she’s safe… that cannot just be because he’s following orders."

He pulls out into the road and I watch the flamingo shrink in the side mirror until it's a pink smear on wet asphalt.

"I don’t know. I don’t have much of a frame of reference either," he says. "That's the problem."

The drive back is quiet, and for once I'm glad my husband doesn't ask any questions. The road belongs to us and the odd taxi. Laszlo drives with one hand loose on the wheel and the other resting near my knee without quite touching it. I lean my head against the window, enjoying the cool glass on my skin.

"Daphne's the first friend I've had in years," I confess, mostly to the window. "If your murderer staff breaks her, I'm holding you responsible."

"Noted," he says, and pauses. "He won't. He doesn't break things he wants to keep."

I don't ask what he means. Right now, my mind is fried.

Daniel opens the gate and we come up to the lit house. I've been living here a while now, and I need to stop pretending I don't like it. I'm out of the car and up the steps ahead of him, shoes already in my hand because my feet are sore. I hope I don't have blisters.

"I'm going to bed," I tell him in the hall. "Don't wake me when you come up. And don't watch me sleep. I know you do it."

"I do it because you talk in your sleep," he says. "You said something about a scaffolder last week. It was very moving."

"Goodnight, Laszlo."

I go up to the room, which is cozy and warm. Someone's left the lamp lit on my side. I drop my shoes by the door and start on the dress, reaching back for the zipper and losing it halfway. My hands are tired, and I need Laszlo to help me. Somehow, I manage to get the dress off. I hang it up, because if I don't he'll straighten it in the morning and I can't stand watching him do it. I'm in my slip, reaching for the water on the nightstand, when the door opens.

Laszlo's in the doorway, and I know instantly something is wrong. He's out of breath, as though he ran up the stairs, or took them two at a time. His pupils are dilated and his face is flushed. The usual charm, the dry little half-smile are gone. His jaw is tight. His eyes are moving around our room, checking for God knows what, and he’s grabbing his phone tight.