Shane’s place, I knew from attending a party over the summer, was on Dearborn. Why don’t I just stop by, I texted. This won’t take long.

More minutes ticked away. The cabbie was approaching my street. “Wait,” I said. “Just pull over to the curb, please. I might be heading somewhere else.”

The driver began grumbling about it being Friday night and how he needed to make money. “I will tip you big,” I said, cutting him off. “Just pull over, please.”

He did as I asked. Sam’s cab did the same.

More time ebbed away. “C’mon, Shane,” I muttered. Still nothing.

I picked up my cell phone again. I’m a block away, I wrote. I know what Sam did with your dad’s property.

This time, he texted back right away. You’ve got 5 minutes.

“Yes!” I directed the cabbie where to go.

The doorman gave me a raised eyebrow when I entered, pulling my suitcase. I was wearing a navy sundress that I’d put on in Panama that morning, along with the high-heeled sandals I thought would go with my heiress-shopping-for-a-crash-pad look. I’d thrown a sweater over the outfit on my way home, and now my teeth chattered from a combination of the cool November night and the fact that we were about to confront Shane Pickett with the murder of his father.

Sam followed me into the white-marbled lobby. He wore shorts and a jacket, along with a duffel bag thrown over his shoulder. The cap was still pulled low, but there was no hiding his black eye.

The doorman’s other eyebrow lifted at the sight of Sam’s face.

I acted as if there was nothing amiss and gave him Shane’s name, then mine. “He’s expecting me.”

But then I got nervous. Could we get Shane to confess? And if we did, could things get ugly?

I turned to Sam to say I was having second thoughts, when I heard the doorman say, “I’ll send her up.”

He pressed a buzzer. “Fourteenth floor,” he said.

I looked at Sam. His eyes were somewhat wide, the way they got when he found himself processing something new. The blond stubble stood out on his tanned face.

He met my eyes, and I knew he could see the question there.

He nodded. “We’re going to do this. For Forester.”

In the elevator, he held out his hand to me. “I’m here now.”

I didn’t take it. “Yeah…now.”

“That’s all we’re talking about, right?”

He stretched his hand out farther.

He was right. We were talking about now. Only now. I took his hand.

The elevator dinged, and the doors opened. Our footsteps were silent as we moved down the hallway that was carpeted. I knocked at Shane’s door.

He opened it, his face stern with thought. But it went slack at the sight of Sam. He looked back and forth between Sam and me. “I’m calling the cops.”

“Don’t do that, Shane,” Sam said. “I’m here to tell you everything.”

Shane hesitated, but not as long as he would have in days past. He gave an abrupt nod. “Five minutes,” he said with authority.

He stepped back to let us in. The condo was a large one. I remembered views of both the lake and the Loop from last summer, but now the sky was blocked with fog. It felt as if there was no one around, only us, and I became very scared. If Shane had plotted the murder of his father, what else was he capable of? I tried to signal Sam, but he was like a man released from chains. He charged into Shane’s living room and stood in front of the windows, his arms crossed.

Shane didn’t offer us a seat. Wearing crisp, dark jeans and a blue shirt, he took the same posture as Sam and stood in front of an antique sofa table. He was a short man whose lack of self-assurance usually made him seem even shorter. But today Shane appeared confident and poised. He leaned on a two-hundred-year-old table from France. A few weeks ago I thought that the entire apartment, which had been meticulously decorated down to the antique silver wine coasters, was too adult for Shane. Now, something about the confidence he exuded made it seem as if he’d outgrown the apartment.

I stood near a contemporary oil painting and watched the two men.

“I’m listening,” Shane said. “And now you’ve got four minutes.”

“Don’t tell me what to do, Pickett. Not after what you’ve put me through.”

“What I’ve put you through?” Shane picked up a phone from the table. “I’m calling 9-1-1 if you don’t get talking.”

Sam’s jaw flexed and tensed. An enormous moment of silence passed.

“Maybe I should explain,” I said. “Sam-”

“No, Izzy, please,” Sam said, interrupting me. “Let me.” He looked back at Shane. “Your father asked me to take the Panamanian shares in the event he died suddenly. He asked me to sell them so that the estate would be tied up.”

Shane scoffed. “Are you crazy? You must be seriously unhinged. Why in the hell would he want to do that?”

“Because he was concerned that someone wanted to kill him. And he wanted to make sure whoever that person was didn’t get the estate or his company.”

Shane exploded. “How dare you come here and make up crap about my father. He was nothing but good to you!”

Sam began yelling now, too. “You wanted him to retire so you could take over the company, and when he didn’t, you killed him!”

Shane lunged at Sam.

I threw myself between them and managed to shove Shane backward. “Wait, wait!” I yelled. “Shane, listen. Your father spoke to both Sam and me before he died about letters he was receiving at Pickett, letters telling him he should step down from the company.”

Shane’s gaze swung from Sam to me and back again. “I want you out of my house right now.”

“Just listen, Shane,” I said calmly. I explained what the letters said. I explained what the homeless guy on the street had said, how his father had been very concerned. Shane did not look surprised.

Sam and I glanced at each other. Sam spoke up. “He thought it might have been you behind it. After all, you were the one who stood to take over Pickett Enterprises.”

Something in Shane’s face crumbled. “But I never wanted that. I mean, I told my father I did, that I was ready, but I only said that because I knew that’s what he wanted to hear. I’ve been trying my whole life to be the man my father wanted. I knew he had designed Pickett as a family business, and he wanted to keep it that way, but I have no head for business.” He looked at me. “Izzy, you know that. I’m struggling now to learn the business and to take control of the company, but only because that’s what my dad wanted.” He looked at Sam again. “But I can’t believe he also wanted you to steal thirty million from him.”

Sam explained Forester’s plan. He told Shane how his dad had called that night he died, how he’d found Forester facedown on his patio table, how he’d sprung into action and taken off to Panama. “I have documentation that your father drew up,” Sam said. He reached into his jacket and withdrew a sheaf of papers. He handed them to Shane. “These are copies, and they were translated into English, but you can see your father’s signature there at the bottom.”

Shane flipped through the pages. “I have no idea what these mean.”

“They mean that your father gave me the authority to possess and sell the Panamanian corporation that owned the real estate. And I did what he asked.” Sam’s voice was getting louder again. “What we’re here to talk about tonight is what you did to your father, Shane. And I want you to quit playing dumb about it!”

“Enough!” came a familiar voice somewhere behind Shane.

We heard footsteps in the hallway. I looked at Shane, whose expression turned to one of fear.

Sam moved closer to me, as if to protect me. “What’s going on?” he said softly.

Shane turned in the direction of the voice, then back to us. He didn’t seem to know what to do. “Don’t!” he called out.

But it was too late. “Leave him alone,” said the voice, that voice I knew somehow.

The owner of that voice stepped into the room.