“Hi, I’ve heard a lot about you,” Melissa said, and Chris realized that Flavia and the Rabbi were trying to set him up, yet again.

“Nice to meet you too. I’m—” Chris was about to say Chris Brennan, but he stopped himself. “Curt Abbott.”

“I hear you’re, like, the best ATF agent ever.”

“Not exactly,” Chris said, eyeing the Rabbi. “So much for confidentiality.”

The Rabbi waved him off. “Don’t give me that, Curt. She doesn’t need clearance to know you’re a star.”

Chris laughed it off, and they all sat down to a delicious dinner of vegetarian risotto and roasted branzino, covered with tomatoes, onions, and red peppers. He wolfed down a second helping as the conversation circulated easily, lubricated by chilled Sancerre. Melissa was a nice woman, telling funny stories about her life as an associate at a big law firm, and although Chris gave the right responses and said the right words, he felt apart from everyone. It was as if he could go only so far but no further, and by the end of dinner, Chris could feel the Rabbi’s eyes on him.

“Chris, let’s go outside. I need a cigar.”

“Sure, okay.” Chris followed him from the kitchen, through a set of French doors, and out to their back patio, a flagstone rectangle framed by a privacy fence covered by ivy and climbing rosebushes. At the center of the patio was a table and wire chairs painted red, and on the table sat a blown-glass ashtray with a half-smoked cigar and a Bic lighter.

“Sit down, please.” The Rabbi sat down, picked up his cigar, lit it, and took a long drag to bring it back to life. “So what did you think of Melissa?”

“I think she’s a lovely young woman who will make some guy a great wife.” Chris sat down.

“But not you?” The Rabbi’s cigar flared orange-red, and he leaned back in his chair.

“Not me.” Chris could see inside the kitchen through the glass doors, and Flavia and the three girls were talking, laughing, and feeding Fred bits of fish, which he kept dropping on the tile floor. A warm golden glow emanated from the kitchen, and soft jazzy music floated through the screen door.

“What’s going on, Curt?”

Curt. Chris. He tried to reposition himself in space and time. “Nothing.”

“I’m not buying that.” The Rabbi tilted his head back and exhaled a wispy funnel of cigar smoke, which was swept away by the city air.

“Alek ticks me off. I appreciate your going to bat for me.”

“Happy to do it, you know that. I think you’re right.”

“Thank you.” Chris glanced inside the kitchen, through the window, and he could see Fred walking on his hind legs for more fish. The women burst into laughter.

“Why do you want to stay with the operation so much?”

“Like I said. Something’s not right, and we’ve gotten away with too many peaceful Oklahoma anniversaries. We’re pressing our luck and—”

“And that would be the party line.”

“What do you mean?” Chris looked over, surprised at a new skepticism in the Rabbi’s tone.

“Don’t get me wrong, I believe you. But you’ve been undercover for years. There’s no operation you turn down, no matter how big or how small. And this one, you reached for, as soon as that video came in. You wouldn’t be denied.”

“Is something the matter with that?” Chris felt stung. “I’m doing my job.”

“Curt.” The Rabbi took another drag on his cigar, and its thick ash flared at the fat tip. “As your boss, I appreciate your dedication and your commitment. But as your friend, I don’t like it.”

“Why?” Chris scoffed. “Don’t treat me like I’m some cliché, the undercover burnout. I’m not that at all. I’m fine. I’m stable. I’m not showing any signs of PTSD.”

“That’s exactly what bothers me.” The Rabbi’s dark gaze narrowed behind his glasses. “You like undercover work too much. You don’t want to leave it.”

“Because I like what I do. I’m a workaholic, like you.”

“No, wrong, I hated undercover work. You know why? I like who I am and I love my life. I love Flavia and the girls, and I even love that fat dog.” The Rabbi gestured to the kitchen, but his gaze remained on Chris. “You like being under too much because it gives you an identity. Someone to be. A role to play.”

Chris’s mouth went dry, and the Rabbi’s words resonated in his chest. But he didn’t know if he could admit it, not even to himself, much less to the Rabbi.

“I think that’s why you want to continue this operation, and why you leapt on the opportunity. The operation was your idea, and you rammed the authorization down Alek’s throat. That’s why he’s coughing it back up. You want to be under forever, that’s what I worry about.”

Chris didn’t know what to say, so he didn’t say anything. He wished he had a cigar so he had something to do with his hands, something that would distract him from the sweetly domestic scene on the other side of the window. It struck him that he’d lived his entire life on the wrong side of the window, with everyone else on the other side, the normal side, easy to see and within reach, but only through glass, separated from him. The Rabbi was right. Still Chris couldn’t say anything.

“And the question is, if that’s true, what do you do about it? The answer is simple—come in, for good. You can’t start figuring out who you are until you get rid of Chris Brennan, Kyle Rogan, Calvin Avery, and the other aliases. They’re not you. They’re just roles you played. I want you to stop before you lose yourself.”

Chris swallowed hard. “I’m not sure if that’s possible,” he said, quietly.

“Stopping or losing yourself?”

“Stopping.” Chris knew the other one was possible. That, he knew.

“Of course it is.” The Rabbi gestured at the kitchen window again. “You can have everything that I have. A wonderful wife, two great kids to drive you crazy, a dog on a diet—”

“What if I need to play a role to be the best agent possible?” Chris heard himself say. It must’ve been the wine, loosening him up.

“You don’t. You’re already the best agent possible. The rest is just dressing. Like clothes or a scarf. Overlay. The distinction is form over substance.” The Rabbi eyed him. “And Curt, you’re all substance. Always have been.”