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Isabel didn't want to enter the apartment at that moment, because she'd promised Owen and Ingrid at least another hour, but she felt they needed to know, so she knocked (perhaps not loudly enough, she thought in hindsight), then came in, took a few steps forward, and saw Ingrid standing naked in the kitchen, with Owen facing her, fully clothed. Isabel gasped, and perhaps shrieked a little or laughed a little; she thought of immediately leaving (just as the door clicked shut behind her), then thought she should go into another room, but Owen moved first, to step past her; he grabbed a coat from the closet and threw it at Ingrid, who put it on. Ingrid said, fiddling with the buttons, "I wanted him to see what I look like now." Owen looked away. Ingrid said, "That's all it was."

Isabel said, "It's fine. I mean, I don't know, it's fine."

"I'm sorry," said Owen, still looking away. "I didn't know you'd come in. Well, I didn't think about it. It happened out of nowhere."

Isabel just pressed on. She said to Ingrid, "Your husband's outside in the street. Pacing around. Waiting for you to come out, I guess."

Owen did look at her now, and at Ingrid. "How can he be outside?" he asked.

Ingrid said, "I took an Uber down here, but it occurred to me on the way, I said it to Isabel already, he and I share the same account, he can see my rides. I mean, he knows the address I came to, the address of this building. He doesn't know anything about you. He knows Isabel lives here because I used my Uber account yesterday to get her a ride home. I wasn't thinking then either."

"What are you talking about, getting her a ride home?" asked Owen.

"We'll explain later," said Isabel. "The point is, he knows me and he recognized me. I'd been walking, and I came past here again, on my way to sit in a coffee shop, because I was going to give you more time, as I said I would. I saw him on the other side of the street, watching the door. I stayed out of sight until he was distracted by his phone, then I ran inside. He saw me and tried to come after me, but he was too late, the door had closed. The concierge wasn't at his desk, there was no one else around. Even if someone lets him into the lobby, even if he speaks to the concierge, he thinks my name's Linda, it won't get him anywhere. Still, he's down there. I thought you should know."

"Why would he think your name is Linda?" asked Owen, like someone who suspected he was being made a fool of.

"He's probably not thinking rationally," said Ingrid. "I doubt he'll stay long. He gets bored easily. And he's missing work – for him that's the worst thing that can happen. And he'll have to take care of the kids." She shrugged as if nothing more needed to be said.

"I don't know what's going on," said Owen. "I've gone from being the happiest man alive to being, I don't know, the most clueless. It doesn't sound like you want to go down and talk to him. Should I go instead? What do I say, that he doesn't need to worry, you were only in my kitchen taking your clothes off? What happens then, does he kill me?"

"He wouldn't kill you," said Ingrid. "I should tell you something about him though." She'd inserted the buttons of the coat into the wrong holes; it wouldn't have fit anyway. "You may recognize him," she told Owen. "I don't know if you know him well, but you've probably come across him."

"Great," said Owen. "What's his name?"

"It's Oliver Beals. I'm Ingrid Beals now."

"Oliver Beals," repeated Owen, opening his mind to the connection, but looking like he expected it to have to travel from far away, from several degrees of separation. "Wait a minute," he said then. "Oliver Beals, the partner in my firm? The guy in consultancy?"