“I should apologize to her, too.”

Blake shook his head. “She’s at home. She hasn’t been back. Says she’s a wreck, and she’s right. Can’t blame her.”

Reacher nodded. “A lot of stress. She should get away.”

Blake shrugged. “Where to? She won’t get on a damn plane. And I don’t want her driving anyplace, the state she’s in.”

Then his eyes hardened. He seemed to come back down to earth.

“I’m going to look for another consultant,” he said. “When I find one, you’re out of here. You’re getting nowhere. You’ll have to take your chances with the New York people.”

Reacher nodded.

“OK,” he said.

Blake looked away and Harper took her cue and led Reacher out of the office. Into the elevator, up to ground level, up to the third floor. They walked together through the corridor to the familiar door.

“Why was she expecting it?” Harper said. “Why was Alison expecting the box of paint, when all the others weren’t?”

He shrugged. “I don’t know.”

Harper opened his door.

“OK, good night,” she said.

“You mad at me?”

“You wasted thirty-six hours.”

“No, I invested thirty-six hours.”

“In what?”

“I don’t know, yet.”

She shrugged. “You’re a weird guy.”

He nodded. “So people say.”

Then he kissed her chastely on the cheek, before she could duck away. He stepped into his room. She waited until the door swung shut before she walked back to the elevator.

THE SHEETS AND the towels had been changed. There was new soap and shampoo. A new razor and a fresh can of shaving cream. He upended a glass and put his toothbrush in it. Walked to the bed and lay down, fully dressed, still in his coat. Stared up at the ceiling. Then he rolled up onto one elbow and picked up the phone. Dialed Jodie’s number. It rang four times, and he heard her voice, slow and sleepy.

“Who is it?” she said.

“Me,” he said back.

“It’s three o’clock in the morning.”

“Nearly.”

“You woke me up.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Where are you?”

“Locked up in Quantico.”

She paused, and he heard the hum of the line and the faraway night sounds of New York. Faint isolated car horns, the whoop of a distant siren.

“How’s it going?” she asked.

“It’s not,” he said. “They’re going to replace me. I’ll be home soon.”

“Home?”

“New York,” he said.

She was silent. He heard a quiet, urgent siren. Probably right there on Broadway, he thought. Under her window. A lonely sound.

“The house won’t change anything,” he said. “I told you that.”

“It’s the partnership meeting tomorrow,” she said.

“So we’ll celebrate,” he said. “When I get back. As long as I’m not in jail. I’m still not out of the woods with Deerfield and Cozo yet.”

“I thought they were going to forget about it.”

“If I delivered,” he said. “And I haven’t delivered.”

She paused again.

“You shouldn’t have gotten involved in the first place.”

“I know that.”

“But I love you,” she said.

“Me too,” he said. “Good luck for tomorrow.”

“You too.”

He hung up and lay back down and resumed his survey of the ceiling. Tried to see her up there, but all he saw instead were Lisa Harper and Rita Scimeca, who were the last two women he’d wanted to take to bed but couldn’t, for force of circumstance. Scimeca, it would have been totally inappropriate. Harper, it would have been an infidelity. Perfectly sound reasons, but reasons not to do something don’t kill the original impulse. He thought about Harper’s body, the way she moved, the guileless smile, her frank engaging stare. He thought about Scimeca’s face, the invisible bruises, the hurt in her eyes. Her rebuilt life out there in Oregon, the flowers, the piano, the shine of her furniture wax, the buttoned-up defensive domesticity. He closed his eyes and then opened them and stared hard at the white paint above him. Rolled onto his elbow again and picked up the phone. Dialed 0, hoping to get a switchboard.

“Yes?” said a voice he had never heard before.

“This is Reacher,” he said. “Up on the third floor.”

“I know who you are and where you are.”

“Is Lisa Harper still in the building?”

“Agent Harper?” the voice said. “Hold, please.”

The line went quiet. No music. No recorded advertisements. No your call is very important to us. Just nothing. Then the voice came back.

“Agent Harper is still here,” it said.

“Tell her I want to see her,” Reacher said. “Right away.”

“I’ll pass that message on,” the voice said.

Then the line went dead. Reacher swung his feet to the floor and sat on the edge of the bed, facing the door, waiting.

THREE O’CLOCK IN the morning in Virginia was midnight on the Pacific coast, and midnight was Rita Scimeca’s habitual bedtime. She followed the same routine every night, partly because she was naturally an organized person, and partly because that aspect of her nature had been rigorously reinforced by her military training, and anyway when you’ve always lived alone and always will, how many ways are there of getting yourself to bed?

She started in the garage. Turned off the power to the door opener, slid the bolts into place, checked the car was locked, turned off the light. Locked and bolted the door through to the basement, checked the furnace. Walked upstairs, turned off the basement light, locked the door out to the hallway. Checked the front door was locked, did the bolts, put the chain on.

Then she checked the windows. There were fourteen windows in the house, and all of them had locks. Late fall and cold, they were all closed and locked anyway, but still she checked each one of them. It was her routine. Then she returned to the front parlor with a rag for the piano. She had played four hours, mostly Bach, mostly half speed, but she was getting there. Now she had to wipe down the keyboard. It was important to remove the acid from the skin of her fingers. She knew the keys were actually some kind of sophisticated plastic and were probably impervious, but it was a devotional thing. If she treated the piano right, it would reward her.

She wiped the keyboard vigorously, rumbling down at the bass end, tinkling all the way up to the top of the eighty-eight keys. She closed the lid and turned out the light and returned the rag to the kitchen. Turned out the kitchen light and felt her way in the dark up to her bedroom. Used the bathroom, washed her hands, her teeth, her face, all in her usual strict order. She stood at an angle to the sink, so she didn’t have to look at the tub. She hadn’t looked at the tub since Reacher had told her about the paint.

Then she stepped through to her bedroom and slid under the covers. Pulled her knees up and hugged them. She was thinking about Reacher. She liked him. She really did. It had been good to see him. But then she rolled the other way and put him out of her mind, because she didn’t expect ever to see him again.

HE WAITED TWENTY minutes before the door opened and Harper came back. She didn’t knock, just used her key and walked right in. She was in shirtsleeves, rolled up to the elbows. Her forearms were slim and tanned. Her hair was loose. She wasn’t wearing a bra. Maybe it was still in the motel room in Trenton.

“You wanted me?” she asked.

“You still on the case?” he asked.

She stepped into the room and glanced at herself in the mirror. Stood next to the dresser and turned to face him.

“Sure,” she said. “Advantage of being a plain-vanilla agent, you don’t get the blame for other people’s crazy ideas.”

He was silent. She looked at him.

“What did you want?” she said.

“I wanted to ask you a question,” he said. “What would have happened if we’d already known about the paint delivery and we’d asked Alison Lamarr about it instead of the UPS guy? What would she have said?”

“The same as he said, presumably. Poulton told us the guy is solid.”