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“Where were you?” Tatyana said when he entered the apartment. “I called and called.” Her hair was in a long braid. Pushkin was in her lap as she sat on the couch. She was wearing her Athleta yoga pants, and her face was free of makeup. She looked weary.

“I left my phone on my desk at work. Must have spaced out.”

“But I called your secretary, and she said you were gone for the day.”

“I was working out in the company gym,” he said. “Really needed it. Margo left before I got back.” He held her eyes. “You’re upset. Something’s on your mind. Something else.”

“I talked to the gallery. I sold only three pictures.”

“I thought you said you sold out.”

“I did. Do you want to guess who bought all the others?”

“Well, he loves you, that’s obvious.” And he owns the gallery , Paul thought. There’s that, too . “And it’s your first show, don’t forget. It takes a while to build word of mouth. And what if you get a review?”

“ Artforum never reviewed the show.”

“They will. Or the next one.”

He poured them drinks, realizing that he had fallen into the bad habit of drinking hard liquor every night when he got home. Alcohol relaxed him, but it was beginning to depress him, too. It made him moody, pensive. Tonight, sipping his Four Roses, he found himself thinking about his new bride. The thing that had attracted him to her, at first, was her impetuousness, her spontaneity. He wasn’t a spontaneous person, more of a planner, a plodder, and she was an antidote to that. Then, as he got to know her better, he loved the way she rejected her father’s gaudy displays of wealth, the way she wanted to live a normal life. She had dismissed that explanation, saying that it wasn’t a rejection of her father, but simply a desire to live differently, to establish her own identity.

Whatever the truth—and maybe he’d never know—it was unclear to him where the lines were, what about her upbringing she rejected and what she’d never reject. Did she know what her father was up to? Would she always defend him? Was there a bridge too far?

“Looking forward to Moscow?” she asked as they were undressing for bed.

“Don’t know. It’ll be interesting. Since I’ve never been to Russia before.”

“I’ve decided I’m going with you. I want to visit Mama.”

“Oh?” A splinter of ice formed in his stomach. He didn’t think she’d be accompanying him. “Great. Look forward to meeting her.”

When he was sufficiently liquored up, he said to her, “A friend of mine—a colleague at work—died of an overdose.”

“Overdose of what?”

“Heroin and cocaine and fentanyl.”

“I’m sorry to hear it. That’s too bad.” She said it offhandedly. “Was he a druggie?”

“He told me he didn’t drink. He was a really straitlaced guy. He . . .” His voice trailed off. He couldn’t bring himself to repeat aloud to Tatyana what Chad Forrester had speculated.

“Maybe he killed himself,” she said. “Too much pressure at work, you know? Maybe he couldn’t take it.”

“Uh-huh.” Paul stared at the ceiling while Tatyana spoke.

“Some people, you can never really know them.”

*

He awoke at six, eyes red and gritty, feeling anxious and depressed, his head aching. Drinking a third cup of coffee was a bad idea; it would only make him more jittery. As he ate a bowl of Rice Chex, he read the Wall Street Journal on his phone, and there a headline snagged his eye.

“BAE Systems Wins Billion-Dollar Contract for 10 Destroyers.”