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Friday she came into my office, told me she was busy tonight but tomorrow I should come to her place and bring the gun.
    I almost didn’t. Bring the gun, that is—I wasn’t about to turn down an invitation to Jordan’s apartment. I figured she couldn’t be serious about the game she’d proposed, but another part of me had started to come around. It was true. I needed to get rid of the thing. I’d never been into role play, but maybe it would be fun. I was pretty certain I could summon enthusiasm for any game that ended in sex with Jordan.
    She’d told me she lived in the Marina District but her building was clearly in North Beach, a high-rise at the foot of Columbus just a few blocks from Washington Square, with views of Coit Tower and downtown. The kitchen and the living room were a single open space, with granite counters and stainless appliances and furniture from some high-end store. One bedroom was set up as an office, outfitted with a full desk and credenza.
    The other, of course, was the focus of my intentions.
    We sat on the couch, sipping wine. I told her she seemed distracted. She didn’t respond. Something seemed to be working its way to the surface of her mind. I was ready for her just to come out with it, whatever it was. I went on: “Sometimes I look at you and I get the sense you’re rehearsing conversations in your head. Like you’re thinking how to break the news to the other man, whoever he might be.”
    She lifted an eyebrow, back in the here and now. “What news?”
    She ought to have said: “What man?”
    â€œYou and me. Whatever this is. We haven’t talked about where this is going.”
    â€œDo you want to talk about it?” she asked with sufficient detachment to make clear I’d regret that conversation. “Or would you rather just go to bed?”
    After we’d made love and were lying between her sheets, she asked me if I’d brought the gun. I said it was in my coat in the other room. “You still want to play make-believe?” I asked.
    She told me no. It was as if she’d forgotten all about our role-play fantasy. But she hadn’t forgotten the gun. “Leave it with me,” she said. “I’ll take care of it. I don’t trust you to do it yourself. You’d probably just take it home again and put it back in the drawer.”
    I had to admit she was right. “What are you going to do with it?”
    â€œGet rid of it,” she told me. “Think of it as my major contribution to your welfare.”
    I was puzzled but won over. The idea of someone taking even a small share of the weight from my shoulders was seductive.
    Jordan awakened with a gasp, sitting upright and yanking the sheet up over her chest, like there were watchers. But we were alone.
    â€œWas someone here?” she asked. “I could’ve sworn I heard my name called.”
    At my place she’d slept like a baby. “There’s no one.”
    â€œOh.” She fell back onto the pillow and curled against me. “It wasn’t you playing tricks?”
    Her voice was different now from the voice I’d come to know over the past week. Now it resembled the voice of a scared child waking in the middle of the night.
    â€œCross my heart.”
    Her breathing deepened until I thought she was asleep. Then her phone chimed and she started awake again.
    She found the phone, looked at it, read something, and set it aside. Turning on the light, she finished dressing and gave me a pointed look. She meant me to dress, too.
    When I’d complied, I followed her out of the bedroom. She was on the phone requesting a cab. “Something’s come up,” she explained. “Even if I had time to explain and wanted to, I’m afraid I’m not free to tell you anything about it. Duty of confidentiality and all. It has nothing to do with any of our cases.”
    That didn’t explain why she