Chapter 4: One Bed

Ingrid's penthouse had a view of the whole river, and Posy was not looking at it.

She was lying on her stomach on the marble kitchen island, nose to nose with a goldfish bowl.

"The fish likes it here," she said. "He says it's the nicest prison he's ever been in."

"He didn't say that," Ingrid said.

"He said it with his face."

Ingrid stood in the doorway in her wedding suit, with her shoes in her hand.

She had lived alone in this apartment for six years.

Now there was a seven-year-old on her counter and a purple backpack on her white sofa.

A man in a funeral suit was checking her window latches one by one.

"They lock," she said.

"Yours do," Cavan said. "I'm checking the fire escape."

"There's no fire escape. It's the thirty-first floor."

"Then I'm checking that there isn't one."

He crossed to the glass door and tested the handle with two fingers.

He moved the way a man moves in a room he has already decided to defend.

Ingrid caught herself staring at his shoulders and looked away fast.

The doorbell rang at nine.

The inspector stood in the hall with her tablet and a small black bag.

"Mrs. Keegan," she said. "Mr. Keegan. May I come in?"

"Of course," Ingrid said, with her best boardroom smile.

The inspector walked through the apartment slowly.

She opened the refrigerator and looked at the milk.

She opened the hall closet and ran a finger along the hangers.

In the guest room, she examined the little bed that Ingrid's housekeeper had made up that afternoon with a purple blanket.

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