“Might be good for you.”

“You’re not going, are you? It’ll be all gay guys.”

He shrugged. “You told me last week I had to go.”

“I was trying to guilt you into it. You never fall for that.”

“We’ll go together. I’ll pick you up.”

“You must be worried about me.”

“Nah, I’m just being a good sport.”

“Really, I don’t think I’m up for a party.”

“Too bad, I’m picking you up at eight.”

“I-”

He held up his hand in protest, then turned his back on me. “See ya at eight,” he called over his shoulder.

I went into the kitchen and began to sort through the mail-a tax bill from the city, an invite to a charity event, a thankyou note from my mom, a flyer from a clothing store I loved.

And then I got to a postcard. From Indianapolis of all places. On the front was a photo of a white capitol building with Corinthian columns and a green dome.

And on the back was Sam’s handwriting.

34

The postcard wasn’t signed, but there was no mistaking Sam’s printing-short and square, all in caps. I’d been reading his handwriting for years on notes he left in my pockets-Good luck today on your deposition. Kick some ass like you always do-or those propped against my teapot when he left early for rugby pitches on Sunday mornings-You’re beautiful when you sleep. I wanted so badly to wake you up. If we lose, I won’t be as patient when I get home.

But now. Now, that printing on the postcard. His handwriting twinged something deep in my gut. Why in the hell would Sam be sending me a postcard from Indianapolis?

Red Hot, the postcard said. Remember when we came here a few years ago? The hellish weekend that turned out to be heaven?

I remembered. It had been only a few months after we’d met, a time during which we were mad for each other. We sent each other sexy text messages all day and rushed to one of our apartments at night, frenzied to get into each other’s arms. When Sam remembered he had to spend a weekend at an investment seminar in Indianapolis, we were tortured at the thought of being apart. It was a cold and rainy week and, as Friday approached, Sam kept grumbling, “This is gonna be hell.” But then he came up with the idea that I join him. He upgraded to a suite, rented me a stack of DVDs, made sure the minibar was stocked, and I was happy to stay in bed all weekend, watching movies and waiting for him.

What’s happening now has nothing to do with us, the postcard continued. Know that. Trust me. And please don’t tell anyone you got this.

And that was it. No signature, no “I love you.” I studied the card, relieved that at the very least he was okay-he was alive-but I realized that there wasn’t anything in the card, other than his handwriting, to give away the fact that Sam was the author. The words he printed there were vague and gave away nothing. He’d been careful about what he wrote, I could tell. But why?

What have you done, Sam?

I studied the postcard some more. The only real information it revealed was the fact that it came from Indy.

What was he doing in Indy? I struggled to recall whether he’d ever mentioned any investment opportunities there, maybe something he was working on for Forester. Nothing came to me.

I looked at the postmark. It had been sent two days ago on Wednesday, the day after Forester died, the day after Sam failed to show at the Union League Club. He must have driven there that night.

But again-why? Did he know anyone in Indianapolis? I searched my mind for any friends, business contacts, anyone he might know there. Something was bothering me, something tickling my brain.

Then it struck me-a recollection of Sam’s high-school reunion, a bunch of Sam’s friends standing at the bar and talking about the Indy 500.

The next thought struck harder. I remembered why they were talking about the Indy 500. Because Alyssa, Sam’s ex-girlfriend, had just moved to Indianapolis for a project.

Calm down, I told myself. I reminded myself that Alyssa said she was living there only temporarily while she was conducting research in something called geriatric thermoregulation. I remembered this because I’d Googled her extensively when we returned from the reunion. All I’d really been able to understand was that Alyssa went around the nation conducting research that improved the quality of life for the geriatric population, particularly those who were bedridden. She was an angel of mercy, essentially, which was tough to compete with from a girlfriend perspective.

Was she still in Indianapolis? I thought of Sam’s recent e-mail congratulating her on new funding. I raced to the computer and found her e-mail [email protected]. I searched the Web for “ICCR” and “geriatric research.” It took only a second to find what I was looking for. The Indianapolis Center for Clinical Research, also known as the ICCR, was still conducting a trial on geriatric thermoregulation. Which meant, as far as I could tell, Sam might have gone to Indianapolis to see Alyssa.

35

I went on a crazy tear to find her.

First, I e-mailed.

Hi Alyssa, This is Izzy McNeil, Sam’s fiancée. I’m wondering if you could call me as soon as you get this. Thanks much, Izzy

I typed in my cell-phone number, my home phone number and my work number and hit Send.

I sat by the computer, watching it, glancing at my cell phone, praying she was still at work, even though it was after five on Friday. I prayed she would call me back. I prayed that she wasn’t in bed with Sam and his thirty million dollars’ worth of bearer shares.

Nothing.

I tracked down the number for the Indiana Center for Clinical Research and went through an exhaustive round of number-punching to access their directory and get Alyssa’s voice mail.

Her voice sounded sweet and smart. I hated her more by the second.

“Hey Alyssa, this is Izzy McNeil,” I said. “I wanted to ask you a few questions…”

I paused. How much to say about Sam? About the fact that he’d disappeared? If he was there in Indianapolis with her, would she be more likely to call me back if I mentioned him?

“It’s about Sam,” I said finally. “If you could give me a call, I’d really appreciate it.” Again, I left my cell, home and work numbers.

I sat at my desk, waiting for the phone to ring or an e-mail to pop up in my in-box. Nothing happened. I called Information and found there was no listing for an Alyssa Thornton in Indy.

Despite the postcard, my exhaustion started choking me. As I stared at my in-box, the images and letters on the screen blurred. But I didn’t want to go to bed too early and wake up in the middle of the night, my thoughts racing.

I tried to think of something productive to do. There had to be something I could do.

I thought of the first assignment Mayburn gave me. I picked up my cell phone and found Shane’s number.

“Shane, it’s Izzy.”

Silence. “Hi, Izzy,” he said finally, with weight in his voice.

“How was the reception?”

“Still going. I’m downstairs, hiding from everyone.”

“I meant what I said earlier. You did a great job at the funeral. Your dad would have been proud.”

A pause. “That’s all I’ve ever wanted.” His voice sounded hollow now, far away, almost as if he was musing to himself.

“Shane, do you think we could meet?”

He was silent.

“I just think we should talk…privately,” I said. “I mean, after today.”

“I’ll be in the office tomorrow morning for a few hours. You could come by there if that works.” He named a time.

“See you then.”

I got back on the Internet and ran a few more searches, looking for video, images, anything that could get me some information on Alyssa Thornton and where I could find her. Nothing.