Clare lies flat on the bed, no memory of the dream that woke her. She’s in her hotel room. It’s Friday morning. She lifts her phone from where it charges on the bedside table. 7:52 a.m. She arrived back here around midnight, setting her gun in the drawer, then peeling her clothes off to tumble into the bed. Her mouth is dry, her head screams. In the bathroom Clare chugs three glasses of water and leans forward to meet her own stare in the mirror. You’re just tired, she mouths to her reflection. She turns on the shower and jumps in.

Back in the room, wrapped in a towel, Clare checks her phone again. There is a text from Somers.

I’m in the lobby. Where are you?

Quickly Clare dresses and brushes her teeth. Her stomach is pulled tight with hunger. The hotel hallway is empty but for an abandoned cleaning cart at the far end. Clare stares at her reflection again in the tinted mirrors of the elevator. In the lobby she finds Somers seated at a cluster of lounge chairs. She stands as Clare nears.

“Sorry,” Clare says. “My alarm didn’t go off.”

“You don’t look that hot,” Somers says. “Where’d you go last night?”

“Nowhere. I’m just tired.”

“Okay. So what’s up? Why the late-night texts?”

“Something’s come up,” Clare says. “At least, I think it’s something. It’s a video file. It won’t open on my phone. I figured we can use your laptop. Is there somewhere more private we can go?”

“Give me a second,” Somers says, all-business.

Somers proceeds to the front desk and flips open her badge to the clerk. Clare slumps in the chair and tracks the business travelers who come and go, their wheeled carry-ons clicking along the marble floor. Despite the coolness of the lobby, Clare’s back and neck are coated with sweat. Somers returns, waving a key, and directs Clare to follow her down a hallway at the rear of the lobby. She unlocks a small boardroom and hits the lights. Clare and Somers fan out to opposite sides of the conference table. Somers unpacks her laptop.

“While I love a good mystery,” Somers says, “can we cut to it?”

Clare digs her phone from her pocket and unlocks it to access her email. “I’m going to email you the file,” she says. “It’s large. I received it yesterday from an encrypted email address. No sender name.”

“Okay,” Somers drawls, hitting at the keys of her laptop. “What is it?”

“Like I said, I couldn’t open the file on my phone. But I think it depicts Jack Westman’s murder.”

Somers gapes at Clare. “Someone emailed this to you?”

“Yes,” Clare says. “Last night.”

“How do you know that’s what it is?” Somers asks. “If you haven’t watched it.”

“I don’t know. The file name implies it. I might be wrong. But I have a hunch.”

Somers’s baffled stare is broken only by the ding of an arrived email.

“Okay.” Somers taps at her laptop again. “I’ve got it. Let me try to open it.”

They roll their office chairs closer until their elbows touch. Somers allows the first few seconds of the video to play. The camera circles the table. Clare recognizes Roland’s, the booth. The shot stops on Colleen Westman. Somers hits the pause button.

“Jesus.” Somers slaps the table. “You were right.”

“I knew it.”

“Okay, listen. This is what we do. We watch it once through. Once. Then we share what we saw. What we noticed. Then we watch it again and hash it out.”

“Why?” Clare asks.

“Because we both know what we’re going to see next. A guy comes in and shoots another guy. We don’t know who took this video, or who’s seen it, or what else is in it. I’ve seen the case file and I know for a fact that the cops haven’t declared a video as evidence. If any of them have seen this, they buried it. So we watch, and we see what we notice. Fresh eyes. Okay?”

“Okay,” Clare says.

“It’s not going to be pretty,” Somers says. “You up for it?”

“Just play it.”

Somers aligns the mouse to restart the video. Clare feels like she might vomit. The video window opens on the screen. At the bottom, Clare notes the running time at just under two minutes.

“Ready?” Somers says.

She presses play.

Again, Colleen Westman. The video is shot from the same vantage where Clare sat yesterday at Roland’s. The booth. To Colleen’s left is Jack Westman, to her right, Zoe. Charlotte must be filming, Clare thinks. Desserts sit untouched in front of them. Among the three of them, only Colleen is smiling.

“How old are we today, Mom?” the filming voice says. Yes. Charlotte’s voice.

“Oh, forty-five,” Colleen says with a dismissive wave. “Not a day older, I swear.”

Charlotte laughs. “Then I won’t ask how old you were when you had me,” she says.

It unsettles Clare to see Zoe Westman animated like this. Alive, talking. How many people have told Clare that she looks like Zoe? And as the camera zooms close, Clare sees it too. It is remarkable, she thinks, their hair and pale skin tone, but even something in the mannerisms. The smile. You remind me of someone, Malcolm had said to her at the end of their first case. Clare leans closer to the screen.

The camera shifts to take in the room. Clare spots Kavita standing at the hostess table, tapping at a touch screen. And though there is a crowd, Clare can clearly see Roland behind the bar. He is deep in conversation with a patron, laughing, a bar towel draped over his shoulder. The camera circles back to Colleen. Then Clare hears it.

“Whoa there, friend. Can we help you?”

This is Jack Westman’s voice. The camera is still trained on the three at the table. Jack, Zoe, Colleen. Then there is a yelp and the camera jerks to the shooter. He comes into fuzzy view before the first shot is fired. Another. Then another. “What did you do?” someone yells. Zoe is screaming, and the camera waves about, focused on nothing. There is a brief flash of Jack Westman slumped against his wife, his temple marked with a red circle that looks dabbed on with paint. Finally the focus settles on the ceiling. Charlotte must have dropped the camera. “What did you do?” A woman screams again. “What did you do?” Then: “Get him!” From there the sounds are mixed together, too many voices at once. The video ends.

Clare and Somers shift back in their chairs.

“Less gory than I was expecting,” Somers says. “Anything in particular you noticed?”

“That was Zoe in the video. So Charlotte must have been filming. One of the witnesses I spoke to, Kavita Spence, the hostess—you can see her in the video. She had conflicting memories with Roland about what door the guy used. I don’t know why she’d lie.”

“She probably isn’t lying,” Somers says. “Not intentionally, anyway. Memory is garbage. It’s the worst possible witness. Especially with something like this. Your mind will play tricks on you. She can’t describe his face properly even though she probably looked right at the guy. She thinks he came in one way when he actually came in another. Her brain inserts that element so she can process what she witnessed.”

“Can you zoom in on the shooter and take a screenshot?” Clare asks.

Somers toggles the video to land on the frame that best depicts the shooter. Though it is grainy, it is clear that the shooter is wearing eyeglasses, the hood of a jacket pulled tight to conceal the color of his hair. But his face is visible enough. If you knew him, you’d recognize him.

“He probably wore glasses to mess with facial recognition,” Somers says. “This guy knew what he was doing. Do you recognize him?”

“No,” Clare says.

“He’s probably a hired gun. I’ll get copies of this image printed at the front desk. Anything else?”

“One thing,” Clare says. “Jack. Did you notice something about him?”

“He seemed pretty calm,” Somers says. “But I guess he didn’t know what was coming. He’s just out for dinner with his family.”

“I know,” Clare says. “But… hmm. Can we replay it?”

This time Clare edges over to the laptop and cues the video up herself. They watch the first minute again. Then again.

“What do you see?” Clare asks Somers.

“He seems distracted?” Somers guesses. “But also kind of out of it. Drunk, maybe.”

“Yes,” Clare says. “He does.”

“He keeps looking at the door.”

Clare clicks at the video to zero in on the section with Jack clearly in the frame. It seems plain: His smile is put on, and he is looking to the restaurant’s entrance. As if waiting. Next to him, Zoe and Colleen laugh and lean into each other, hamming for the camera. Clare presses pause. In the frozen frame you can see Jack clearly. His eyes are glassy. His coloring is off. He looks ashen.

“I’m not exactly sure what I’m supposed to see,” Somers says. “He’s thin. Doesn’t look all that great. Kind of sickly. But the guy was old.”

“No.” Clare touches the screen. “Look. Look at his expression.”

“I’m not sure,” Somers says. “But he seems scared.”

In the paused image Jack has edged away from his wife in the booth. He is waiting, watching.

“Actually, it’s pretty clear,” Somers says. “I see it. He knew.”

“Yes,” Clare says. “He knew it was coming.”