“Well, it’s complicated,” she told him, “but I think I’m going to need a leave of absence.”

Slough dropped into a wing chair, and frowned. “‘A leave of… ‘ Isn’t this something we could talk about at the office?”

“Well,” Adrienne replied, “that’s the point. We really can’t.”

Slough’s face contorted into a kind of skeptical and puzzled grimace. “What!?”

“I can’t go there. If you’ll let me explain…”

And so she did. She told the story as economically as possible, reprising her childhood in thirty seconds, then segueing into her sister’s illness in Europe. Slough listened thoughtfully beneath furrowed brows, sipping his coffee and wincing sympathetically as Adrienne recounted the discovery of her sister’s body. He was clearly fascinated. But lest he jump to the conclusion that she wanted time off to grieve (which, she knew, would be “unlawyerly”), she went on to recount her sister’s sinister relationship to Duran, Bonilla’s retainer, his subsequent murder, the skepticism of the police and… well, the whole nine yards, including the incident at the Comfort Inn and Duran’s impending surgery. When she was done, she set her cup down and said, “So you see: I really need to stay away from work for a while. Because—I know how melodramatic it sounds, but—someone’s trying to kill me.”

Slough sat back in his chair, nodding his head and looking thoughtful. Finally, he set his cup and saucer down, leaned forward, and said, “So… you’re shacked up with this guy?”

Adrienne’s jaw dropped.

“Is that what you’re saying?” Slough asked.

“No,” she protested, “that’s not it at all. That’s—”

The lawyer grunted. “Let me explain something: I don’t think there’s a law firm in this town that’s more considerate of the people who work for it than Slough, Hawley. If someone’s going through the grieving process, we don’t take a backseat to anyone: we’ll cut you all the slack you need. But this… this goes way beyond ‘slack.’ The police? The ‘Comfort Inn’? My God, woman—what’s next? A trailer park?” Slough shook his head in a regretful and disbelieving way, then got to his feet.

“But,” Adrienne began, “you don’t understand—”

“Oh, I think I do,” Slough told her. “Details aside, you’re ‘accident-prone.’“ He wagged a finger at her to emphasize a point. “Not a good trait in a lawyer.” He paused. “I’ve got some thinking to do,” he told her, and clapped his hands, signaling the conversation was at an end.

And not just the conversation, she sensed. Despite herself, she was afraid she was going to cry. Fighting back the tears, she followed her boss to the front door, where he turned to her as he opened it.

“Maybe a leave of absence is a good idea,” he suggested. “Take a little time to sort things out. Get your ducks in a row. After that… we’ll see where we stand.”

Adrienne nodded, sinking her eyeteeth into her lower lip, suppressing a tidal wave of candor with a burst of well-timed pain. “Thanks,” she said, bathing him in a bright smile.

“I’ll have Bette take over the asphalt brief. She’s not the sharpest pin in the cushion, but… she’s there. And right now, I’ll settle for that.”

Adrienne’s dry eyes and smile survived to the end of the driveway, at which point she burst into tears. She’d worked so hard, for so long. And now, she was… what? What had he called it? Beyond slack.

Like someone dangling at the end of a rope.

She followed Rock Creek Park down to P Street, and exited into Georgetown. Parking in the lot next to Dean & DeLuca’s, she stopped for a latte, drinking it at one of the little tables in the long, glass room that runs beside the grocery. As depressed as she was from the meeting with Slough—she was obviously not going to be at the firm next year—she was relieved to have it over with, and out of the way. Relieved, too, not to have to think about asphalt anymore, or covering for Curtis Slough. In fact, when you thought about it, maybe she was better off. There were other jobs, she told herself.

When she’d finished her coffee, she went inside and bought a bag of hardwood charcoal and a couple of strip steaks, which the butcher packed in ice. She stowed the groceries in the back of her car, and walked to her sister’s apartment, two blocks away.

Ramon was standing in the foyer in his doorman’s uniform, hands behind his back, rocking on his heels. Seeing Adrienne, he broke into a broad smile and held open the door. “Heyyy,” he exclaimed, “it’s good to see you. You come for the mail?”

She shook off the cold with a shiver, stamped her feet for warmth, and said, “That, and to clean up a little. How’s Jacko?”

“Never better! And guess what? I ‘followed my bliss.’ Like Nikki said.”

“She did?”

“Yeah. We had a talk—just before… what happened. And I took the part.”

“What part?”

“In the Scorsese movie. I’m ‘Doorman #2—Ramon Castro de Vega.’ How ‘bout that?”

“Wow!”

“So now, I’m thinking: maybe I’ll do some community theater, y’know?”

“Why not?”

“Anyway… the mail’s on the kitchen counter in the apartment. I put it there for you. You need the key?”

“No,” Adrienne told him. “I’ve got one.”

Ramon guided her to the elevator, pressed the button, and touched the brim of his hat. “I’ll tell Jacko you were askin’ after him!”

“I’d like that,” she said.

And then she was upstairs, moving toward her sister’s apartment, thinking, I have to do something about her ashes. I have to—

As she entered the apartment, she was hit by a gust of grief that was as strong as it was unexpected. Maybe it was all the stress she’d been under, or maybe it was the apartment, with its dead plants and listless air. Whatever the source, the sadness hit her like a truck. Tears shot into her eyes for the second time that morning. Walking out to the balcony, she stood in the freezing cold and wept for Nikki, the high-rises across the river fracturing behind her sadness.

After a few minutes, she couldn’t stand the cold any longer. Returning inside, she got down to business. The apartment was depressing; its untidiness seemed in some way disrespectful to Nikki. She was going to have to clean this up some day and she thought it might make her feel better to do it now. The refrigerator was a mess, reeking of sour milk and some fishy remains in Chinese take-out cartons. There were orange peels with puckered skins, and yogurt containers bristling with a sort of fur. She swept it all into a green garbage bag, and carried it out to the trash compactor in the hall. Then she went from room to room with a spray bottle of Fantastik and a roll of paper towels, wiping the dust from tables and counters. That done, she gritted her teeth and went into the bathroom—which the police had left in a mess. Fingerprint powder was everywhere because, as the police had explained, until her sister’s death was ruled a suicide, the crime scene had to be treated as if a murder had occurred.

The plants on the balcony were dead but Adrienne didn’t have the energy to drag them to the trash room. So she did the next best thing, compacting them into a corner of the terrace, where they looked neat, at least.

Which left the gun. She’d been thinking a lot about the gun. If Nikki herself had bought it, where and when? Maybe it could be traced. There must be a serial number or something. Crossing the room to her sister’s closet, she opened the door and reached inside for the lime-green carrying case.

But it wasn’t there.

At first she thought she’d forgotten where it had been. Lifting the bed skirt on her sister’s bed she looked on the floor and saw… a tangle of dust bunnies and a couple of paperbacks. Getting back to her feet, she went into the hall and looked through the closet there, then into the living room and under the couches, searching everywhere. But it was gone. It was big and green and you couldn’t miss it… and now it was gone.