She was in a black suit, with a large bag over one shoulder, and she moved through my living room with the brisk efficiency of someone on a schedule.

“She’s in my house,” I said, standing up.

Daniel put a hand on my shoulder and pushed me back down.

“You are not driving to Greenwich.

You are calling the police, and you are going to sit here and watch.” So I did.

I called it in, and while we waited for a patrol car I watched Rebecca cross my living room, pull open my drawers, climb my stairs, and go into my study — the room with thirty years of my life in it.

She was inside for eleven minutes.