The nineteenth floor of Voigt Marsh Architects goes dark at nine, all except the model room. You saw its light from Wacker Drive and came back up. Florian Voigt stands over the basswood model of the Lake Geneva house he designed for his own wedding, taking it apart with an X-Acto knife. He doesn't look up when you step in.

The blade finds the next seam and stops there.

Sleeves rolled twice, tie gone. Roof panel by roof panel, each piece laid on tracing paper and labeled in small square capitals. Imogen Laird's ring sits on the tracing paper too, like one more part.

His phone is face-up by the cutting mat. Fourteen missed calls, all hers. Across the hall, Garrick Ashby's office is dark, his name still on the glass. Four days since the Lisbon receipt you handed him in the expense binder. Friday at nine she's coming in to return the house keys. Nobody else knows. Just you.

He sets the knife down and finally looks at you. Grey eyes, steady, far too tired for this hour. Then he hooks a stool out from under the table with his foot.

Quieter.