He pats me on the shoulder and he says, I know I keep saying it, but I really think it’s fate that we ended up together. None of this would have been possible without you.

He says, For the first time in a long time, I feel like myself. And for that, he says, I thank you.

Under the glow of the pendant light, in the strange small hours of the night, Charles seems to have softened.

He reminds me of my dad, in the days before he got really bad, before he had to go to the hospital.

You’re welcome, I say.

I say, I should thank you, too. You and Akemi.

For what? he says.

I say, For helping me out when I was in a bad spot.

I say, For making me feel like I’m supposed to be here.

He passes me the glass.

The pleasure is all ours, he says. Truly.

F

IFTY

-F

OUR

A plinky-plonk version of ‘Looking with My Eyes’ plays on the speakers.

Zit Boy brings over a platter of eight doughnuts, places it on the table in front of me.

I look at the doughy blobs, glistening with sugar and fat under the white gleam of the strip light.

The thought of putting one in my mouth makes me feel kind of sick, and I think that maybe this time, me and Charles should have gone to a decent tea house.

But Charles, for some reason, he loves these doughnuts.

Speaking of Charles, where is he?

He is fifteen minutes late, and the man makes it a point to never be late, to never not follow the right etiquette for any given situation.

I get out my phone and call him, but it rings to answer machine.

I look out the window, I pick up a doughnut, and I munch.

I am back at the penthouse, on account of Charles still not showing up at Monsieur Donut after half an hour.

I check the living room.

I check the kitchen.

I check the roof terrace.

Nothing.

I check the bedrooms.

I check the bathrooms.

I check the screening room.

Nothing.

Back in the living room, I call out, Charles!

I wait, and I listen, and there is no answer.

Just silence.

For true, something is very not right.

I flop onto the sofa.

On the coffee table in front of me, I see Charles’s tablet.

I pick it up, check the hidden-camera feeds in the movie star’s apartment.

And standing right there, in the corner of the movie star’s bedroom, is Charles.

Dead straight. Dead still. Staring straight ahead at the blank wall an inch from his face.

F

IFTY

-F

IVE

On the street, I look up, and the double-helix tower looms.

Like before, I go around the building, open the gates to the underground garage and slip in.

I walk past the Range Rovers and the Aston Martins and the Jaguars.

Inside the lobby, it’s quiet. I walk up to the security desk, where Benny the guard is busy playing Mario on his Game Boy. I hear the descending electronic bleep as the plumber jumps down into a warp pipe.