“Right now.” Four minutes later he was inside, and the moment he saw my face he didn’t reach for a joke the way Daniel always reaches for a joke.

“What happened,” he said.

I turned the laptop toward him and let him watch.

He watched the whole thing without blinking, a man who had spent a career watching terrible footage, and when it ended he was quiet for a moment, and then he said the first useful thing anyone said to me that day.

“Do not confront her by yourself.” “I’m going to see my daughter.” “Then I’m driving you, and we’re going out the side.” We slipped out a service entrance while the band, somewhere behind us, launched into the wrong song and had to be corrected amid nervous laughter.

Daniel’s driver pointed the car toward Park Slope, and the whole way my phone buzzed against my leg — Rebecca calling, calling, calling, and then the texts. Where are you.