“Only because nowhere else would have me. Yuji, it is impossible for me to be with Win. And you should know that even the suspicion of that could be disastrous for me.”

Yuji shrugged. He might have been the most infuriating person I had ever known. “Was Sophia Bitter your girlfriend?” I asked.

Yuji smiled at me. “Is tonight the night for archaeology?” “That isn’t an answer.”

“Mainly she was my school friend,” Yuji said after a rather long pause. “She was my best school friend.”

“Why didn’t you tell me that when we were at the wedding?” I asked. “It wasn’t relevant.”

“Neither is my personal life then.”

We traveled up Madison Avenue in silence.

I closed my hand around the lion, letting its edges and imperfections etch themselves into my flesh. Yuji put his hand around my fist. “So you see. Our lives are interconnected.”

His hand was ice around mine, but the sensation was not entirely unpleasant.

The car stopped on East Ninetieth Street, where I lived, and I opened the car door.

“I am sorry that we argued,” he said. “I … The truth is, I see you as … part of myself. I should not, though.”

I got out of the car and went upstairs. I went into Natty’s room. She had already fallen asleep, but I woke her up anyway.

“Natty,” I whispered. “What?” she asked drowsily.

I held out my palm so that she could see the wooden lion. “Leo? It’s Leo, isn’t it?” Her eyes were bright and alert. I nodded.

She took the wooden lion and kissed it on its head. “Will we ever see him again?” I told her that I hoped so and then I went to bed myself.

I had barely slept at all when I awoke to a banging on the apartment door. “Police!”

The clock read 5:12 a.m. I pulled on my bathrobe and went to the door. I looked through the peephole. Indeed, two uniformed police officers stood there. I opened the door, but left the security chain on. “What do you want?”

“We’re here for Anya Balanchine,” one of the police officers said. “Yes. That’s me.”

“We need you to open the door, ma’am. We’re here to take you back to Liberty,” the officer continued.

I ordered myself to stay calm. I could hear Natty and Imogen stirring in the hallway behind me. “Annie, what’s happening?” Natty asked.

I ignored her. I had to stay focused. “On what grounds?” I asked the officer. “Violations of the terms of your release.”

“What violations?” I demanded.

The officer said that he didn’t have that information—just instructions to bring me back to

Liberty. “Please, ma’am, we need you to come with us.”

I told him I would come out, but that I needed a moment to change. “Five minutes,” the officer said

I closed the door and walked down the hallway. I tried to consider my options. I couldn’t run; there was no other way out of the apartment, except suicide. Besides, I didn’t want to run. For all I knew, this could have been some sort of clerical error. I decided to go with the police officers and figure out the rest later. Imogen and Natty stood at the end of the hallway. Both seemed to be awaiting my instruction. “Imogen, I need you to call Mr. Kipling and Simon Green.”

Imogen nodded.

“What should I do?” Natty asked.

I kissed her on the head. “Try not to worry.” “I’ll say a prayer for you,” Natty said. “Thank you, sweet.”

I ran to my bedroom. I took off my necklace and changed into my school uniform. I went into the bathroom, where I took a second to brush my teeth and wash my face. I looked at myself in the mirror. You are strong, I told myself. God doesn’t give you anything that you can’t bear.

I heard more banging on the door. “It’s time!” the officer called.

I returned to the foyer, where Natty and Imogen looked at me with shell-shocked faces. “I’ll see you soon,” I said to them.

I walked to the door, unchained it, and pushed it wide open. “I’m ready,” I said.

The officer was holding a pair of handcuffs. I knew how this went. I held out my wrists.

At Liberty, I wasn’t brought to the intake room as I had been the previous two times I’d been there. They didn’t even have me change into the Liberty jumpsuit. Instead, I was delivered to a Liberty guard, one I didn’t recognize, then led down a hallway.

A hallway that led to several flights of stairs.

I knew this route, and it could mean only one thing. The Cellar.

I had been there once before and it had nearly killed me, or at least driven me crazy.

I could already smell the excrement and the mold. Fear crept into my heart. I stopped short. “No,” I said. “No, no. I need to talk to my attorney.”

“I have my orders,” the guard said without emotion.

“I swear on the graves of my dead mother and father, I haven’t done anything wrong.”

The guard pushed me and I fell to my knees. I could feel them scrape against the concrete. It was already so dark and the stench was terrible. I decided that if I didn’t stand up, then they couldn’t make me go down there.

“Girl,” the guard said, “if you don’t stand up, I will knock you out and carry you myself.”

I clasped my hands. “I can’t. I can’t. I can’t. I can’t.” I was begging now. “I can’t.” I grasped the guard’s leg. I was past having dignity.

“Assistance!” the guard called. “Prisoner is noncompliant!”

A second later, I felt a syringe go into the side of my neck. I did not pass out, but my mind went blank, and it felt as if my troubles were behind me. The guard tossed me over her shoulder like I weighed nothing and carried me down the three flights of stairs. I barely felt it when she placed me in the kennel. The cage door had only just closed when I finally did lose consciousness.

When I awoke, every part of me hurt, and my school uniform was ominously damp.

Outside my tiny cage, I could see a pair of crossed legs in expensive wool pants attached to a pair of feet in recently shined shoes. I wondered if I was hallucinating—I had never known there to be any lights in the Cellar. A flashlight beam moved toward me. “Anya Balanchine,” Charles Delacroix greeted me. “I’ve been waiting near ten minutes for you to wake up. I’m a very busy man, you know. Dismal place here. I’ll have to remember to have it shut down.”

My throat was dry, probably from whatever drug they’d given me. “What time is it?” I rasped. “What day is it?”

He pushed a thermos through the bars, and I drank greedily. “Two a.m.,” he told me. “Sunday.”

I had been asleep almost twenty hours. “Are you the reason I’m here?” I asked.

“You give me too much credit. How about my son? Or you yourself? Or the stars? Or your precious Jesus Christ? You’re a Catholic, are you not?”

I did not reply.

Charles Delacroix yawned. “Long hours?” I asked. “Very.”

“Thanks for taking time out of your busy schedule,” I said sarcastically.

“All right, Anya, you and I have always been able to be candid with each other, so here it is,” Charles Delacroix began. He took a slate out of his pocket and turned it on. He turned it toward me. The photograph was of Win and me in the Trinity cafeteria. Win was holding my hand across the table. It had been taken Friday. How long had he held my hand? Less than two seconds before I had pulled away.

“It isn’t what it looks like,” I said. “Win was shaking my hand. We’re trying to be … friends, I guess. It wasn’t even a moment.”

“I do believe you, but unfortunately for both of us, this indiscretion was long enough for someone to get a picture,” Charles Delacroix said. “On Monday, a news story will run with this picture and the headline ‘Charles Delacroix’s Mob Connections: Who He Knows and What That Means to Voters.’ Needless to say, this is not ideal for me. Or for you.”

Yes, I could see that.