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objective.
    “I don’t need hand-holding,” she claims.
    “Just make sure to keep the ‘Find My iPhone’ feature turned on. I want you on a leash.”
    She pulls the phone quickly from her ear not wanting him to hear her laugh. She knows he’d rather be shopping in Marrakesh than pursuing a bomber in Amsterdam, knows that for him this is about his brother—always will be. Senses there is residual guilt there, but has never heard Tommy’s full story. It bothers her that he has coaxed more out of her than she has from him.
    “And you?”
    “Don’t worry about me,” he says.
    “Who said I was worried?”

K nox has never been in a newsroom before. His only impressions are from the movies—the noise, the confusion of dozens of reporters in small cubicles, phones ringing, pages running up and down aisles. About the only thing that matches with the image now in front of him is the glass wall at the end of the room beyond which are the offices of various editors, including the editor in chief. It’s quiet, subdued, many of the cubicles empty. It has to do with the world economy, the state of the newspaper business. If once this newsroom thrived, it does no longer.
    “Emily Prager?”
    The woman who looks up at him is tired and needs to wash her hair. A package of nicotine gum rests by her keyboard, along with a blue spongy ball and a black hair tie.
    He introduces himself as John Steele, the freelance photographer who called looking for Sonia Pangarkar. The receptionist told him where to find her. “You said you might be able to help me find her.”
    “I did not expect a visit.”
    “I can be impulsive.”
    “I told you: she’s not coming into work right now. She’s taken a leave. I’m sorry.”
    “A leave, or on holiday?”
    “She and Mark had a falling out. Our city editor.”
    “Over?”
    “Not for me to say.” Her eyes tell him she’s uncomfortable speaking to him here. “You’ll need to take that up with her.”
    “Can I buy you a cup of coffee?”
    “No, thank you.”
    “Please.”
    She lowers her voice as her eyes appraise him. “Sonia is sometimes a little too independent—a little too creative for Mark.”
    “The sweatshop article. The girl. That’s exactly why I’m here.”
    “She was assigned a piece on medical care. It’s not exactly what she filed.”
    “But a strong piece just the same.”
    “But Mark . . . he writes the paychecks. He knows what he wants. He and Sonia . . . believe me, they have both benefited from the other, but it is push and pull with them. Right now, Mark is pushing. So is Sonia. So, her leave of absence.”
    “The car bombing didn’t carry her byline.” Knox had a crash course in journalism over the phone with a friend at the
Detroit Free Press
. He hopes to hell he has his lexicon straight. He feels he’s inching closer to something, doesn’t want to give himself away.
    “No.”
    “And that upset her.”
    Emily Prager’s consternation gives way. “There’s a Starbucks on the corner. Ten minutes.”
    After twelve minutes he’s beginning to worry, but she arrives soon thereafter, a sweater around her shoulders. She orders a coffee and waits for it, and joins him at a small table. The place is jumping. The streets are busy.
    “Look,” she says, “it’s not like I have a lot to say to you.”
    “Yet here we are.”
    “I Googled your work. It’s good. You’re good.”
    Dulwich and the Hong Kong office have made John Steele credible. “Her phone number?”
    She appraises him. “I don’t think so.”
    “You could text her for me. Let her know I’d like to meet with her.”
    “I could, but I won’t. Sonia doesn’t need a photographer, she needs time away. This story got to her. It happens.”
    “Good photographs carry a story,” he says. “From the moment I read her piece . . .” He shakes his head. “You could just let her know I’m available.”
    “I can’t get involved.” Again, she studies his face. This time her