At six I made coffee.

At seven I called Bettina.

At eight, Fergus knocked on my door.

He did not look like the man who had strutted around the dining room the night before.

His hair was a mess, his eyes were red, and he looked emptied out.

“What’s in the vault?” he asked, without hello.

“I don’t know yet.” “What if it’s worse than last night?” “Then we’ll finally know where the lies start.”

I made him coffee he didn’t drink, and we sat in my small kitchen in a silence that was, for the first time in our lives, not hostile.