Owen Adler whispered in the dark, the bed and the houseboat shifting imperceptibly. On Sunday mornings, Lake Union was active early. Seaplanes and outboard engines competed noisily in the distance. “It really is. It has to be.” His voice was sad. “I know.” Daphne rolled over, pressing her bare chest against his and curling onto him like a snake onto a branch, and kissed Owen wetly on the mouth. “I hate it,” she confessed. She knew that this time it was for real—with her being police, they could not risk violating the demands. Maybe, she told herself, it helped explain why the sex had been lifeless. Maybe it offered her a way for her to win access to his files. She told him. “I would like to take a look at your files. The New Leaf contamination you told us about.” “Tap will help you with that.” She did not want to involve Howard Taplin, or any other Adler employee; she did not want any filters between her and the information.
