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ROB TRILLING WAS trying to forget about the failures of his day at work. He had no idea how this guy Antonio Deason had figured out so quickly that he was being watched. Terri Hernandez said it had to be counter-surveillance. Whoever was conducting it was really good. None of them had seen anyone watching.

Now, in his apartment, Rob had collapsed on the couch, watching a rerun of Friends with his five roommates. They liked it, and it was apparently a highly recommended show for English-language learners. He just needed a distraction. The women were pretty good company. They didn’t say much but appreciated his presence.

The youngest of the women had recently adopted the name Katie. The woman whose English had improved the most, and who had revealed herself to have one hell of a sense of humor, was now calling herself Sylvia. Sabiha, Ayesha, and Fareeha had said they preferred their traditional, Urdu names.

Rob watched the TV as the characters sat down to a meal together. Then came a firm knock on his apartment door. Everyone froze.

Even though the women were living in New York legally, and Rob had agreed to sponsor and house them during the lengthy legal proceedings, it didn’t change the fact that surprise visits to the apartment still alarmed the women. Part of it was their upbringing and part of it was fear of their vague immigration status in the US. They also were worried that the building’s superintendent, George Kazanjian, might evict them. George liked Rob, and the women were careful to always leave one at a time to maintain the idea that Rob lived with just one woman. But there was no telling what he might do if he found out six people were crammed into Rob’s small apartment.

Luckily, George didn’t seem to be particularly observant.

Rob bounded off the couch and slid to a stop next to the door. He stayed motionless and silent for a moment. Then the knock came again.

He looked over his shoulder, relieved to see that his roommates had all scurried into the bedroom and shut the door behind them. It was a drill they’d worked on several times—twice when George had knocked on the door about something and several other times when a neighbor had come to the door for one reason or another. Each time the women had been able to race into the bedroom unseen.

Rob steadied his voice and said through the door, “Who is it?”

“Juliana.” It wasn’t a shout, but it didn’t sound that friendly either.

Rob took one more glance over his shoulder. The women had even picked up the glasses they had been drinking from. Except for one. That, along with Rob’s glass, could be trouble. He didn’t have time to fix it. He opened the door.

As usual, Rob was amazed at how beautiful Michael Bennett’s oldest daughter was. Dressed in jeans with an all-weather jacket, Juliana looked like she could be a model for a fashionable outdoor company. She also wasn’t speaking. She just stood there, staring at him, her expression unreadable.

Finally, she said, “Are you going to invite me inside?”

He almost jumped in response. “Of course, come on in.” He stepped wide and waved his hand like he was introducing her onstage.

Juliana stared at the two glasses of water sitting on his scarred coffee table in front of the couch. She scanned the room and her eyes fell on the closed bedroom door. She took a step in that direction.

Rob said, “I’m not sure what’s going on, Juliana. Why are you here?” That kept her from walking any closer to the bedroom.

Then she turned to Rob and said, “Can we talk?”