“Will I need to say anything?”

“Just smile at the appropriate times.”

I took a deep breath and approached Bertha Sinclair, who shook my hand. “Good morning, Anya.” She turned to face the press who had gathered. “As you know, Anya Balanchine surrendered herself to me a week ago. I’ve had these past eight days to reflect on the matter and”—she paused as if she hadn’t known exactly what she would do the whole time—“I don’t wish to cast aspersions on my predecessor but I think the way he handled Ms. Balanchine’s situation was atrocious. Whether the initial sentence she received was just or unjust, my predecessor had no business returning Anya Balanchine to Liberty last fall. That move was politics, pure and simple, and in my opinion, everything that happened after should be forgiven. Unlike my predecessor, I think there is law and then there is justice. I want you to know that your district attorney is more interested in justice. A new administration is a good time for new beginnings. This is why I’ve decided to release Anya Balanchine, this daughter of Mannahatta, from Liberty, time served.”

Bertha Sinclair turned to me and gave me a hug. “Good luck to you, Anya Balanchine. Good luck to you, my friend.” She squeezed my shoulder with a hand that felt like a claw.

THE MORNING OF MY RELEASE coincided with Imogen’s funeral. We drove straight from the pier to Riverside Church, where Mr. Kipling and I were to meet Simon Green and Natty. Immediately after the funeral, I was to begin my month of house arrest. I was wearing a black dress of Nana’s that Mr. Kipling had sent to Liberty for me. The dress was uncomfortably tight across my shoulders. All that machete wielding had bulked me up, I guess.

Riverside Church was about a mile north of the Pool, which was where the New York branch of the Balanchine Crime Family conducted its business. As we drove past the Pool, I gripped the car door handle and wondered if the people in there—my relatives—were the ones responsible for Imogen’s and Leo’s deaths.

The church was next to the river (hence the name Riverside), and the late January wind was sharp and brutal. When we got there, a cadre of press stood shivering on the steps.

“Anya, where have you been all these months?” a photographer yelled at me. “Here and there,” I replied. I would never implicate my friends in Mexico. “Who do you think killed Imogen Goodfellow?”

“I don’t know, but I’m going to find out,” I said.

“Please, folks,” Mr. Kipling said. “This is a very sad day, and Anya and I just want to go inside to pay our respects to a beloved colleague and friend.”

Inside, there were only about fifty people, even though the venue probably seated fifteen hundred or more. Natty and Simon Green were in the back. I wedged myself between them, and Natty squeezed my hand. Natty had a coat draped over her shoulders. The coat wasn’t hers but I knew that coat all the same. I knew what it felt like to have my face pressed up against it. I knew what it smelled like—smoke and pine trees—and what it looked like when it hung on the shoulders of the boy I loved.

I looked down the row. On the other side of Natty sat Scarlet, with a slightly rounded belly and rosy cheeks. “Scarlet!” I whispered. Scarlet waved to me. I reached over Natty to set my hand on Scarlet’s abdomen. “Oh, Scarlet,” I said. “You’re…”

“I know. I’m enormous,” Scarlet replied. “No, you’re lovely.”

“Well, I feel enormous.” “You’re lovely,” I repeated.

Scarlet’s blue eyes grew glassy as a lake. “I’m so glad you’re home and safe.” She stood up and kissed me on the mouth. “My dear and best friend.”

Scarlet leaned her head back so that I could see the person on the other side of her: Win. Natty hadn’t just borrowed the coat.

I had known I would have to see him again, but I hadn’t known it would be so soon. I hadn’t had time to steel myself against him. My cheeks burned and I couldn’t think. I leaned over Natty and Scarlet and found myself stupidly holding out my hand to Win.

“You want me to shake your hand?” Win whispered.

“Yes.” I wanted to start the business of touching him. I wanted to touch his hand, then other things, too. But I figured we’d start with hands. “I … Thank you for coming.”

He grabbed my hand and we shook. When he tried to let go, I didn’t want to release him but I did. During our separation, I had wondered if I even still liked him. This now seemed like little more than a pathetic coping mechanism. Of course I still liked Win. I more than liked him. The question was, could he possibly still like me? After all these things I’d done, I mean. It was deeply wrong to have such concerns at a funeral, I know.

Win looked at me—his gaze was steady, if not overly warm—and he nodded formally. “Natty wanted us here,” he whispered.

My heart started to pound in my chest. The thrum was so hard and loud that I wondered if Natty and Scarlet could hear it.

At that moment, the funeral began, and we had to rise, and I reminded myself that Imogen, my friend, was dead, and that she had died saving my sister.

After the service, we went to the front of the church to pay our respects. “I’m so sorry,” I said to Imogen’s mother and sister. “Natty and I are both so sorry. Imogen took such good care of my grandmother and my sister. We’ll miss her more than we can even say.”

“I will always remember her books and how funny she was,” Natty piped up in a soft but strong voice. “I loved her and I’ll miss her so much.”

Imogen’s mother began to weep. Her sister pointed a finger straight at Natty and said, “You shouldn’t be here, girly. You got Imogen killed.”

At that point, Natty started to cry, too.

“You people!” Imogen’s sister spat the words at us. “ You people are criminals! I told Imogen about you people, but she would never listen. ‘This family is a plague,’ I said. ‘It isn’t safe. There are other jobs.’ And look how she ended up!” the sister continued. “ You people are the lowest, the worst.”

“Hey, that’s not called for,” Win defended us.

The sister turned to Win. “You’d be wise to run, young man. Run as fast as your legs will take you. Or you’ll end up just like Imogen.”

“I’m very sorry for your loss,” I said, in order to draw the focus away from Natty and Win.

The sister turned toward me. “There’s a circus out there, thanks to you! Go now, and take your filthy circus with you.”

I hustled Natty out of the church. Win put his arm around her. He leaned down and whispered in her ear, “You were very brave to come here. No matter what that woman said. It was the right thing to do.”

The apartment was not altered in any material respect from how it had been the morning I had left it, and yet it wore its difference like a widow wears a veil. Imogen was gone, and Leo would never return. As for me, I felt years older, though not particularly wiser.

“Remember, Annie, you can’t leave the apartment until February twenty-eighth without clearing it with me,” Mr. Kipling said.

As if I could forget. A tracker had been injected into my lower calf just north of my tattoo that morning, and the area was swollen and pink, like overly kissed lips. Still, there was a relief to being confined. I had time to contemplate my next move.

Simon Green told me that security had been hired to stand guard outside the apartment (just in case anyone tried to finish off Natty and me) and then both he and Mr. Kipling left. Scarlet and Win had gone straight home after the funeral.

“Isn’t it weird how quiet it is?” Natty asked. I nodded. But it was also rather peaceful.