We all froze at the word killed. My gut intuition screamed, Wrong. Sam didn’t kill him. Yet what did I know anymore? Was my intuition something to be believed, or had Sam duped me and everyone else? Meanwhile, another internal voice insisted, Sam didn’t kill him, but someone else did. It seems too coincidental that Forester got those threats and two weeks later dropped dead.

I threw Chaz a withering look.

The silence between us crackled. I looked at them, wondering if it was Walt and Chaz who had killed Forester. Was it them, in additon to the feds, who were having me followed? They might have hired their own investigator to track down Sam and those bearer shares so that the estate could be administered, so Shane could step in closely behind him and run everything the way they wanted. Or was it someone else-Shane maybe? Should I tell one of them about the letters, in case they didn’t know? Their positions inside the company could help determine who had sent the threats and maybe who had paid the homeless guy to say something to Forester. But then I was back to the possibility that the threats had been made by one of the men I was standing in front of.

“I’ll let you know if I learn anything.” I faced Shane and put my hand on his arm. “I’m so sorry for your loss.”

I walked across the front of the church, picking my way past the reporters and cameramen who were packing up, until I found Q, Max and Grady.

“Your mom said she’d meet you at the reception,” Q said.

“I’m not going. I remind everyone of Sam, and that will cause more stress for everyone.”

“I’ll drive you home,” Grady said.

The two of us walked away from the church. A block away, Forester’s hearse crossed in front of us, followed by a long string of cars. I watched the hearse, with its yellow flag that spelled Funeral, as it disappeared down the street.

33

Grady and I drove toward the city. The first fifteen minutes were spent in silence. I watched out the window as the large, tree-filled lawns of Lake Forest gave way to local Highway 41, crowded with strip malls, and then eventually to the Edens Expressway. Every so often, I twisted around, studying the road, and I swore I saw the same blue SUV. I squinted to get the license plate, but could only make out that it was from Illinois.

“What are you doing, Iz?” Grady asked when I had turned around for the fifth time.

I looked at him. His eyes were still on the road, one arm draped casually at the top of the steering wheel.

“It’s starting to get to me,” I said.

He glanced at me, then returned his eyes to the road. “Well, of course it is. Sam’s gone. Forester’s dead.”

“And people are wondering whether Sam might have had something to do with Forester’s death.” In my mind, I saw Shane’s eyes boring into me from the pulpit.

Grady’s mouth pursed for a second. “I’m not going to lie to you, it doesn’t look good.”

“What are you saying? That you think Sam did something to him?”

“I’m just saying he took off with the guy’s property.”

“Allegedly. Allegedly he took off with his property. And even if he did, he didn’t need Forester dead to do that.”

“That’s true.”

“I know it’s true.” I sighed. “I just wish I knew what else was true.”

Quiet. Then, “Let me buy you a drink?”

This was the Grady I loved. “Yes, please.”

Twenty minutes later, Grady parked in front of a corner pub in Lincoln Park. Inside, the place was typical Chicago-pool table, long wooden bar, state-of-the-art TVs at either end showing college-football highlights on ESPN.

The place was mostly empty. We took a seat at the bar. Grady ordered an Amstel Light. I got a Stoli O and tonic. I drank two gulps. Then a third.

“Whoa, tiger.” Grady took the glass and moved it away from me.

“I need it.” I pulled the glass back and stared into it. Maybe the events of the week would push me into becoming a raging alcoholic. I’d never thought I had the potential, but anything seemed possible after this week, including the scary, the farfetched and the wretched. Maybe Sam would never come back. Maybe I’d never get over him. Maybe I’d never have sex again.

The last thought made me start to sweat. I lifted the glass and gulped once more.

“Look at me,” Grady said.

I turned on my stool to face him, drink at the ready in one hand.

Grady’s brown eyes studied me more intently than usual. “Want to talk about it?”

“No.” I took another gulp and gestured at the bartender for another. “Let’s talk about something fun.”

Grady was silent.

“Seriously, let’s talk about what we usually would. Let’s talk about football. How about those Bears, huh?”

Grady studied me again.

“What?” I said.

“You underestimate me.”

“What are you talking about?” The bartender delivered my drink, and I pulled it toward me.

But Grady put his hand around my wrist. “Stop for a second and look at me.”

Reluctantly, I turned away from my drink and swiveled so that my body faced his. “Okay, I’m looking.”

“I can handle more than sports talk and law-firm chat.”

“I know that.”

“No, you don’t. We haven’t talked about much else in the past, but I’m telling you, I’m here for you, okay?”

Now it was my turn to study him. Had he grown up since I last really took stock of him? Were there little lines by his eyes that weren’t there before? Did his jaw have a harder edge? It seemed so. Somewhere along the last few years, Grady had started to look like more of a man, not just a college boy.

“Thanks,” I said.

“I’m serious. You don’t have to talk about it now. You don’t have to ask me for any favors now. But I want you to know that I am always, always here. Got it?”

“Got it.” I smiled. “You’re a good friend.”

He nodded. “I am if you let me be. That’s the kind of people you should have in your life right now-good friends. You’ve got no room for anyone who won’t be honest with you and won’t help you when you need it.”

I nodded along with him. He was right. I needed to keep my good friends close. I mentally made a list of such people-Grady, Q, Maggie, my mom, Spence, my brother. The thought of these people in my life-solid, wonderful people-relaxed me. But with the relaxation, and the drink I’d been chugging, utter exhaustion slipped in. The adrenaline of the break-in last night had carried me through the funeral, and now it was gone.

I stood. “I’m sorry, Grady, but I have to go.”

“Where?”

“Home. I didn’t sleep much last night.”

“Do you need me to drive you?”

I started to say that I’d grab a cab. I wanted desperately to stop talking, to just sleep. But then I remembered that someone could be in my apartment. Again.

“Yeah, that would be great,” I said. I’d ask Grady to walk me up to my place, but I didn’t want to tell him about the break-in. If I did, he would never leave me alone for the night, and more than anything, I felt I needed to be alone to think.

Grady accompanied me upstairs on the pretense of borrowing a book I wanted him to read. I grabbed the mail, untouched for days, and unlocked the front door. The locks seemed fine. I walked quickly around the apartment, sweeping it with my eyes. I touched the computer to check for warmth. Nothing. Everything appeared as I’d left it that morning.

I gave Grady a book my brother had recommended, something about a guy who falls into a ravine coming down a mountain and somehow claws his way out, alive. Guys always love those tragedy-on-a-mountain stories. I hugged him at the door. “You’re the best. Thank you.”

“Anytime. Hey, you going to Q’s Halloween party tomorrow?”

“No. I can’t go to a party with everything that’s happened.”

“What else are you going to do?”

Helplessness surged through me. “I don’t know.”