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Jonathan and I go for dinner at a pub somewhere between Albion and nowhere.

One of the best things about England is the sprawling countryside pubs that fill up only on the weekends or during football matches. The one we select—the Butcher’s Arms—is totally empty. Just a lonely barmaid and a series of empty rooms. We sit in the smoking garden, armed to the teeth. The sky is dark and portentous, the way the last night sky of your life ought to be.

Jonathan—who’s a bit of a downer at the best of times—now seems sincerely depressed. He’s staring out into the dark blue sky, gripping his untouched ale.

“We need to come up with a plan,” I say.

Sherri’s death hasn’t really hit me yet, or maybe death can’t hit me anymore. Maybe I fucked myself up by surrounding myself with it, and I can’t feel loss anymore. Maybe that was always my intention. Maybe that’s why I took this job in the first place, to solve death with more death.

I have to force myself to think about her. I’m going to force myself to mourn her, because I know that I need to. I’m not an emotional undertaker; I can’t just keep burying my tragedies. Sherri was my best friend, even if she was also my handler. She died saving me. She put her life on the line to protect me.

She also lied to me. She made it seem like we worked for a benevolent organization, when really it was just a free-for-all on the internet.

I remember the first night Sherri and I met at that nightclub, how gleeful we were talking about the job. Wasn’t it crazy? Wasn’t it wild? To kill for a living. Wasn’t it free? We used to laugh so loudly to cover up the lies. It wasn’t crazy or wild and it definitely wasn’t free. Both of us were trapped in a dark machine. A machine that kills. The same machine that killed my fiancé.

“Wait.” Something occurs to me. I sit up. “You said Andrew leaked privileged information to the Italian police. What information?”

“I don’t know.” Jonathan seems to have really given up hope. I think it’s mostly an act. I’m just not sure if he knows where his acting begins and ends.

“When I was in Florence,” I say, “the night we met, I passed by Andrew’s old apartment. No one had cleared it out. There might be something there, some clue about the network.” I don’t know what I’m expecting to find, but I’m not one for giving up. Not on Sherri, not on us and definitely not on myself.

“That seems like a long shot,” he says. He’s right, but we don’t have any other leads. We can’t stay here. I, for one, am not waiting around to die. “Somebody will have swept it. They had to have known where he lived.” I give him a look. “But if you want to. Of course. Whatever you want.”

“Good boyfriend.”