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That night they went for dinner at their favorite unfancy French bistro, just the two of them. The next day, when Paul had returned from work, they went to look at the apartment he had picked out online. It was a nice, roomy “classic six” in a prewar Park Avenue building.

The apartment was in terrible shape. Its owner had been an elderly widow who’d recently died and seemingly had never done any renovations to it ever. But it had great views, beautiful hardwood floors, and fine details like window seats, the original moldings, built-in bookcases, high beamed ceilings, thick walls, and wide hallways. The kitchen was big but equipped with 1950s-era appliances. It was badly in need of a refresh. But the apartment was located in a doorman building with a handsome limestone facade on a quiet, tree-lined street.

While the Realtor was still there, Paul and Tatyana walked across the apartment to the kitchen and huddled.

“Oh, my God, Paul, it’s got such potential, don’t you think?”

“We’re going to have to sink a lot into a serious renovation,” he said. He was pleased by her response, even so. He’d wondered what she would think, given the double-wide town house where she’d grown up.

“Papa can help us with this, you know,” she said.

“I’m sure he can. But I want us to do this on our own.” Meaning, of course, on his own. “I want to earn it.”

She gave a sweet smile. Her eyes shone. “I love that. But it’s there for the taking.”

He shook his head, smiled. “Do you think it’s more space than we need?”

They put in an offer that night.

*

The next morning, when Paul went to the break room for coffee, he encountered Chad Forrester in quiet conversation with a short guy with spiky black hair. His name, Paul remembered, was Ethan Carswell.

Chad explained, “We’re talking about Larsen.”

“What about him?” Paul said. Jake Larsen, he’d noticed, hadn’t been in the morning meeting. “He get fired?”

Both men immediately looked at each other. Finally, Chad said, “He OD’d.”

“You’re kidding!” Paul said, incredulous. “Overdosed? On—on what?”

“Speedball. Cocaine and heroin and fentanyl.”

“But . . . I mean, I haven’t been here long, but he sure didn’t seem the type.”

Chad and Carswell exchanged a glance.

“What?” Paul asked. “Did I read him wrong? He seemed afraid of his own shadow. Hard to imagine him having such a druggie alter ego.”

“You smoke?” Chad said to Paul.

Paul at first shook his head, then, getting it, said, “I’ll join you.”

*

Outside the building, on Fifth Avenue, a knot of people stood around on the sidewalk smoking. The smoke irritated Paul’s eyes.

After exhaling a lungful of smoke, Chad said, “Thing is, Larsen was a Mormon.”

Paul nodded slowly. “And Mormons . . .”

“Don’t do drugs.”

Paul pictured Larsen, a tall, lean guy with floppy brown hair parted in the middle. Their VC guy. He dressed conservatively, in blue blazers over button-down shirts. Very uptight and a bit stiff. Not the personality type you’d expect to be doing speedballs. He remembered Larsen ordering ginger ale at the pizzeria.

“Right,” Chad went on. “But I got the sense that he was unhappy here.”

“Based on what?”

“On what he’d say to me in the break room or over email or whatever.”

“It’s a tough gig, working here.”

“Sure, but it’s tough anywhere in our business.”

“No doubt. So what did he say to you?”

Chad took a long draw, blew out a large cloud of smoke. Then he said, “He was complaining about some of the deals he was asked to make . . .” His voice drifted off.

“What—like insider trading or whatever?”

“Something like that,” Chad said vaguely.

“You think—you really think—they did it? Like some . . . Russian or something?”

Chad blew out again, a whole lungful. He shook his head. “Hell do I know? Just . . . just don’t do what Larsen did. Don’t put your unhappiness in writing. Or say it aloud in the office. Again. Understand?”

Paul nodded.

“You know your email is read, right?”

“I guess they have the right to do that, legally.”

“They do,” Chad agreed. “I’m telling you, there’s no such thing as privacy here.”

“Even in the bathroom?”

He shrugged. “Unknown.”

“Wow.”

“You know the rule around here.”

“Keep your mouth shut?” Paul said.

“You know it. Larsen broke the rules. Sounds like he talked to outsiders.”

Paul felt dizzy. His mouth went dry. “How would anyone know that?”

“I don’t know. The phones, maybe? Or maybe someone saw him meeting with someone from the U.S. Attorney’s Office. Anyway, he was terrified.” Chad’s voice grew quiet, hard to hear over the traffic.

What was Chad saying—that Larsen had been killed ? That his overdose was staged? And by whom—by someone in Galkin’s orbit, like the security director, Berzin? That seemed a preposterous allegation. Paul had seen a Tom Cruise movie where his character goes to work for a law firm that seems too good to be true, only to discover that anyone who steps out of line turns up dead. Was that sort of thing happening here—disenchanted employees getting murdered? Instead of just being fired?

Chad pursed his lips in a crooked smile. “Like they say, no one is indispensable.”

The sidewalk tilted under Paul’s feet. It took him a moment to steady himself. Then he cleared his throat and said, “I should get back inside.”

When he returned to his office, he found Mr. Frost sitting behind his desk.