“No, Ev. You can’t. I can’t.”

Ignoring me, he moved closer. “We’ll pick up from where we left off last week.” He put one arm on the wall behind me. My mouth went dry. I licked my lips, which Evan seemed to interpret as a come-on. His eyes closed and his mouth parted. He leaned toward me.

“Goddamned frog!” I said.

His eyes shot open. “What?”

“Sorry. Nothing.” I wriggled out from under his arm, just as the elevator reached the lobby. “Got to go.” I darted through the lobby and onto Michigan Avenue before he could stop me.

When I reached my condo, I asked the cab driver to wait. With the sense of purpose back in my step, I went straight to the bedroom and grabbed the frog. I was no longer scared of it; I was sick of it.

“Can you take me to North Avenue Beach?” I asked the cab driver.

“Whatever you want.”

I jumped out when the cab pulled behind the beachside restaurant, and I walked to the wide sidewalk edging the lake. The weather was beautiful again, and joggers, bicyclists and in-line skaters jockeyed for space. A few eager souls were lying in bathing suits on the smooth sand. The lake was teal-blue and calm. I joined the crowds on the sidewalk and headed for the cement pier that would take me directly over the lake. I walked to the very end. A lone fisherman sat there, his chin tucked into his chest, dozing.

I slid my hand in my pocket and took out the frog. Without looking at it, I ran my hand over the little bumps on its back, the rounded haunches. I was slightly more mellow now that I was surrounded by Lake Michigan. The frog wasn’t a bad thing, I thought, just something that needed to go. Its time with me was over.

I stared down at the lake, too deep to see the bottom. I turned and looked across the expanse of it. Indiana and Michigan were somewhere over there, but this lake was large enough to hide them. Was it big enough to hide a little frog and keep it hidden?

With one movement, I drew my shoulder back, imagining myself as a baseball pitcher, and with a whip of my arm, I launched the frog. It sailed about thirty feet, making a beautiful streak of green across the pale blue sky, before it landed with a smooth plunk, barely causing a ripple.

“You little fucker.”

“Hmm?” Chris said, and rolled over.

I stood up from the bed and crossed my arms, looking at the nightstand. It was back. The damned thing was back. “How did you get out of the lake?”

“What?” Chris said.

I grabbed the frog, along with the cordless phone, and took them into the bathroom. I set the frog on the counter, facing it away, but the reflection of its eyes still stared at me from the mirror. I dialed Blinda’s number. I knew it by heart from all the times I’d tried it. Again, that same damned message with that same musical voice of hers-I’m out of the office for a while.

“Goddamn it!” I yelled.

“You okay?” I heard Chris say from behind the door.

“Fine,” I called back, but I then muttered again, “you little fucker.”

I swiveled the frog around and studied it, as if it would give me the answer on how to properly execute it. Its slash of a mouth looked wider, its tiny face more pleased. I would have to try harder. I would kill this thing.

I took the frog to Lincoln Park Zoo. When no one was looking, I lobbed it into the corral with the elephants, smiling at the thought of those massive gray feet squashing the crap out of that little green amphibian.

The next morning, it was back on my nightstand.

I took it on the El platform, and threw it under the tracks before the train passed.

The next morning, it was back on my nightstand.

The day after my El trip, I left the office at lunch and went straight to the Art Institute, patting the lion at the top. I’d been to the Institute when the bizarreness started a few weeks ago, and although the ancient loveliness of the paintings and artifacts hadn’t helped erase my worries then, it was worth trying again. A jittery dread had taken over my body, a feeling of moving on a predetermined highway from which there was no exit.

It was a Friday, so the museum was fairly crowded. Instead of heading for the busier rooms, I slipped in the Chinese/Japanese hall, which I usually overlooked. But today I felt pulled inside, as if something was waiting for me. And it was. At the back of the room, next to a thin jade vase was a tiny, wide-mouthed frog the size of a nickel, also made of jade. It looked precisely like my frog-there was the lily pad beneath the frog’s rounded legs; his mouth was a long slash that ran under the eyes. I peered closer, my arms behind my back. Near the frog’s case was a white printed card that read Shang Dynasty 1700 B.C.-1050 B.C. Originally part of a pair, the frog-on-lily icons were initially said to have brought great fortune to the dynasty. After disaster befell many family members, it was believed the frogs had brought about ruin.

I stepped back from the card as if shocked with a cattle prod. Ruin, I thought. A powerful word that seemed to signify volcanoes and locusts and mayhem. Was that what would become of me if I held on to the frog? Ruin? And was it possible that my frog was somehow the other side of the pair?

I swiveled around and marched through the halls until I found the administrative offices for the Institute.

“May I see the curator?” I said to the receptionist, a woman about my age.

“Do you have an appointment?”

“No, but it’s important. I have something to donate.”

“Are you from an organization?”

“No, I’m…a private collector.” I liked it as soon as I said it. A private collector. It made me sound worldly and learned, like someone who’d just hopped off a private plane from a dig in Egypt. I was glad I was wearing a suit.

“Your name?”

“Billy Rendall.”

“Will you wait a moment?” She gestured to two chairs upholstered in tan brocade.

“Certainly.” I didn’t usually say “certainly,” but it seemed a word that a private collector would certainly use.

A few minutes later, the receptionist was back with a small, balding man, wearing round copper glasses and an ill-fitting pinstripe suit. “Ms. Rendall,” he said, shaking my hand. “I’m Charles Topper, an assistant curator here. Will you follow me?”

In his office, which, strangely, lacked art or decoration, Charles Topper got right to business. “What can I do for you?” he said, when he’d taken his chair behind his desk.

I squirmed to sit higher in the leather chair. Now that I was here, how to say this? “I believe I have something to donate to the Institute. I believe it dates back to the Shang dynasty.”

Mr. Topper’s eyes grew large. “Is that right? Well, that’s fantastic. May I ask how you acquired this piece?”

“It was a gift.”

“And can you describe it for me?”

“It looks like a piece you already have. The frog on the lily pad?”

His eyes grew narrow now and his mouth pursed. “You’re speaking of the Shang dynasty frog, which was part of a pair.”

“Yes, that’s right. I can’t be sure that I have the exact one, but it closely resembles it. And I have no use for it anymore.” I said this last part breezily, as if I was accustomed to donating artifacts to museums around the world. “I’d like to give it to the Institute. If the piece is of interest to you, it’s yours. And if not, you can get rid of it.” I hoped that there was a massive incinerator employed for such a purpose.

“Ms. Rendall,” Mr. Topper said, taking off his glasses and pressing his thumb into the center of his forehead. “I should tell you that there is quite a legend surrounding that pair of frogs, or at least one of them. Something like the Hope Diamond.”

“You mean where everyone who had the diamond was killed or cursed?” I felt a sweat break over my body.