The only time I’m used to seeing sunlight through my windows is during those early morning hours before—or after—work, or if I wake up on a weekend morning and decide to go for a run across the Brooklyn Bridge to clear my mind.

Some mornings, there are the beginnings of soft sunlight when I’m doing what I do best. I think I’m decent at hedge fund management, even if some of my colleagues lay on the praise a little thick.

But I’m even better showing my partner—whoever she happens to be on a given evening—some of the greatest pleasure that life has to offer.

If it now sounds like I’m the one laying on the praise too thick, all I can say is that it’s something I give my all to and pride myself in. I also really enjoy it.

The sun of the late afternoon is a novel sight here in my home, on the fifty-second floor of the Barclay Tower.

There’s a nice glint to the uptown-facing view, with the Empire State Building still taking precedence over the ugly, new colossal residential towers going up around it.

I’m still looking out of the window of the apartment I’ve lived in for five years, debating whether to take a picture out of my own fucking window since I don’t know when I’ll see this light again, as I walk over to my living room bar.

The bar is mostly for show. I didn’t intend it that way, but I hardly ever find myself using it.

The scotch-filled crystal decanters do match the sparse décor of the room well enough. Even though they’re unlabeled, I have the contents of the decanters memorized: Johnnie Walker Blue Label, Glenfiddich, and the fifteen-year-old Macallan—that’s the one I go for this time.

I pour myself some scotch whiskey and add a few drops of filtered water from the fridge door dispenser. Not very glamorous, I know, but who gives a fuck?

As a rule, I ace every fucking test my career throws at me—without breaking a sweat. The only time I ever stop to take stock in any of it is when I realize how goddamn easy it is for me. That can be disconcerting, on occasion, but I don’t think about it often.

What’s giving me some pause now is that this doesn’t feel easy. It feels out-and-out ineffable, like an ‘I don’t even know where to begin’ type of feeling.

I’m going to need to quit complaining when shit seems too easy because I’ll take easy any day over this.

I hold up the glass of whiskey at eye level. The water’s making the spirit look hazy, diluted, unattractive, but when I take my first taste of it, standing right in front of my gleaming silver refrigerator, it’s immediately outstanding, the water having done its job of expanding complexities to the surface.

With intricate flavors still telling their insistent stories, I almost fall over walking to the leather recliner facing the window.

The sunset’s quickly giving way to the night over New Jersey, and they’re turning on the floodlights at the top of the Empire State Building, bathing the few stories in a fierce red glow.

I’m still wearing my goddamn suit jacket, and, as I reach for it, I find Maddie’s card in the chest pocket.

Okay, I’ve found a place to start with this current test: Stop calling her that.

I pull out Madeline’s card.

The paper industry’s glad these things still exist, for sure. I don’t have anywhere to store it, though, but I’m not keeping it in my wallet.

I hold the card in front of the window, the skyline illuminated in the background.

There’s Madeline’s name in Helvetica or some similar font, her position underneath it in all caps: SECURITIES COMPLIANCE EXAMINER.

Below that is SECURITIES EXCHANGE COMMISSION in a smaller typeface, right next to the commission’s address on Vesey Street, literally just around the corner from where I’m sitting.

How long have I been living so close to her? Does she live in this fucking building? Not likely on that salary—maybe in a smaller studio, but I probably would’ve seen her.

She must live in New York, though, or really close. The SEC’s local office address is on her card after all.

I need to stop thinking about where she lives. The presence of her card is not doing me any good. I was doing just fine before I got it, even after Madeline waltzed back into my life.

I should toss the card in a recycling bin—but not before saving her number. I’m responsible for dealing with the investigation after all.

Okay, next phase, saving Madeline as a contact—by calling her. If the thought makes me uncomfortable, which it does, then I’m probably onto something.

Besides, it’s not even fucking six yet. I should still be working.

It’s time to get on the horn with Madeline. A bit of comfort comes flooding back as I realize I’m still working. Just sitting at home doing nothing is terrible for my health.

I cross the room to the kitchen counter where my two phones are charging and put my scotch down. Time to get back to work.

I mechanically reach for my large-screen business phone, which I use a lot. It has a massive list of contacts and astronomical usage stats each month.

But before I can reach it, I stop. If I put Maddie—sorry, Madeline—on my business phone, I’ll have to see her name come up all the time again, her incoming calls, missed calls, and texts.

The last time that happened...

My slightly smaller personal phone sees less use. My contact list is shorter, and, if it becomes necessary, I can just ignore Madeline. Figuratively.

Don’t get me wrong, this is business. I owe it to my firm to figure out what this is about.

No more fucking thinking; it’s time for action. I unplug my personal phone, bring up the keypad, and dial Madeline’s number, copying from the card.

I ignore that residual anxiousness from my fucking office earlier and hit the call button.

I hear her voice after two rings.

“Hello, Mister Barrett—or Ethan, I should say.”

Fuck, my personal phone number’s still the same as it was five years ago, but she has a different phone, right? Okay, time to stop it and just fucking talk.

“Hey, Madeline, do you have a minute?”

I never say ‘hey,’ and that’s too informal anyway, but at least I called her Madeline. Okay, just let it happen.

“Of course, Ethan. I was hoping to hear from you today. Again, the sooner we start, the better. Are you still at your office?”

“No, for once.”

“Ha! Tell me about it. I’d love to be at home before it’s dark someday. Oh, well.”

“Yeah. I’ve got a short commute, at least. I don’t know about you...anyway, is there a chance we could meet in person? I don’t like speaking on the phone too long.”

“Pet peeve, huh? I can fit a meeting into my schedule, if you can suggest a good venue.”

“Okay, I don’t want to go back to the office, and I need to talk to my colleagues personally before more speculation arises.”

“Hmm...okay.”

Fuck, am I making this worse?

“How quickly can you get to Avenue A?”

“Fairly quickly. Why? What’s there? Let’s discuss that, first.”

“Do you know Lush Republic?”

Yeah, I have no fucking clue why I’m doing this. Well, I already asked. Might as well roll with it.

“I’ve heard of it. If that’s where you’d like to meet, I’m okay with it. I just want to get this moving along, already. I think we both do.”

“Are you at the SEC now? I’m around the corner if you want to share a taxi. You know, to save some money, be more environment-friendly.”

“Thanks for the offer. I hope you’re not offended, but I don’t think that’d be appropriate at this juncture, Eth.”

Well, she called me Eth before I called her Maddie. I better still not fucking call her Maddie, though.

“Of course. No offense taken...so, SEC, huh? I bet that’s a good gig.”

“Uh, yeah. We take pride in what we do, sir.”

“I see. So, Lush Republic, Avenue A between 7^th and 8^th. Is an hour doable for you?”

I hear what sounds like a heavy sigh, but I do my best to ignore it—or at least avoid reading into it.

“I can fit that in...two hours. Is that okay?”

“I’ll see you there.”