The thing was, I didn’t want to analyze it right now. I just wanted to roll with it.

Door is open, I added to the text. Then I hit Send.

18

I should have been exhausted after Sunday-a day spent panty peddling, a night spent researching the pearl thong. But as I got ready to leave my condo Monday morning, only forty minutes after Theo left, I felt charged up with that same electricity from the night before, an energy I hadn’t known since I’d left the law firm.

I put on the suit I used to wear for closing arguments or tough depositions. With its long, clingy skirt and high fitted waist it was professional and sassy, exactly the image I hoped that Trial TV would want in a legal analyst.

Downstairs, I went around my building to the detached garage. Inside, I got my helmet and paused for a second. I used to never wear the helmet, not liking how it smashed my curls and never really believing that I would get in an accident. But I no longer believed I was immune to bad luck, and so I pulled the helmet over my head and fastened the chin strap tight.

As I revved the scooter down Sedgwick, then North Avenue, the traffic was going in the other direction. Most people were headed to the Loop or the Mag Mile, while I was heading to West Webster.

As I buzzed down Clybourn, I raised my face and let the sun beam itself onto my cheeks. When I came to a stop at Racine, I closed my eyes, and I let myself remember the night before. My brain was still assimilating all the images-remembering the way I stood in the shadowy dark of my living room, keen with anticipation as his footsteps pounded, heavier and heavier, up my steps; remembering the old Izzy saying What are you doing? while the new Izzy told her to shut up and locked her in a back room of my mind; remembering his face when he walked in and saw me naked except for the thong; remembering the utter lack of words, remembering only the sounds, groans, growls, sighs.

Suddenly the blaring of horns jolted me back to reality. I forced Theo from my mind, locking him in the back room with the old Izzy. I turned left when I got to Webster and drove past Ashland. The neighborhood was populated with a large bank, a Kohl’s department store, a huge new building housing a yoga center and a lighting store.

I found the address-a stubby but sprawling brick building with a concrete parking lot. I parked the scooter, and followed the sidewalk to the front door. Inside, the floors were linoleum and the walls unpainted drywall. The hallway was lined with file cabinets topped with large cardboard moving boxes. Jane told me the build out was still happening and that it was typical for a start-up network like this to truly start up without all the pieces in place. Clearly, she wasn’t kidding.

I gave my name to a security guard, who issued me a badge and pointed down the hallway. I walked, passing offices. A couple were empty, others used as storage space. Those that were occupied looked like offices you might see at any workplace; each had a computer, phone, notes, photos, knickknacks. The only difference between these offices and those in another industry was that each of these had a minimum of two TVs in them, usually four.

I looked at my watch-6:55 a.m., only a few minutes before Jane’s first morning broadcast would begin.

At the end of the hall, I pushed open a heavy door and stopped dead.

If the rest of the building had been slightly shoddy and the construction not complete, the studio was where attention had been lavished. The ceiling was high and covered with lights. Wires wrapped in bright yellow tape crisscrossed the floor and a bevy of cameras stood at the ready, all focused on two sets. In one, an interview area, four royal-blue leather chairs sat in front of a wall of monitors, all showing reporters preparing for stories near courthouses or capitol buildings. Jane had told me this was where expert panelists would come to be questioned and where the morning “Coffee Break” segment would take place. The main set held a large mahogany anchor desk, vaguely resembling a judge’s bench. The words Trial TV were emblazoned across the front in blue lights edged with white.

Behind the desk, on three large panels, the Trial TV logo was superimposed over moving images displaying shots of famous legal scenes from the last few decades.

Jane sat behind the anchor desk, while a floor director in jeans and a T-shirt read to her from a clipboard. As big as the desk was, Jane had a commanding presence. She wore a suit and a crisp white blouse with a high collar. Her black hair hung on either side of her face, gleaming and smooth. Her makeup was heavy but flawless, drawing out the mauve-blue in her eyes. The only thing that marred her appearance-at least for me-was the scarf. Her red scarf was wound around her neck, its silk ends tucked into the collar of her shirt.

Jane looked up and saw me. “Hi!” she mouthed. She waved me over.

When I got there, she stood and introduced me to another woman who’d walked up at the same time. “Izzy, this is Faith Lowe, litigator turned producer.”

“Hi.” Faith had black shiny hair in an asymmetrical cut. She looked more avant-garde than most of the litigators I knew.

Jane stepped down from the raised anchor desk then and gave me a quick hug. “How are you?”

“Great,” I said. “You look amazing.”

“Thanks. My clothes are sponsored on this gig, so I’m all designer now.” She made a show of holding up her hands and showing off her suit, which fit her impeccably. Neither of us said anything about the scarf. “How are you feeling about your first day in the news?”

“Good. A little nervous.”

“Don’t be.” She spun me around and pointed to a man at the back of the room. He wore slacks, a gray dress shirt that looked as if it could use some laundering and a yellow tie that was already loosened despite the early hour. He was probably in his late fifties with a ruddy face. His thinning hair, which seemed to be a mix of blond and gray, was messed and stood up in places. He was talking fast and gesturing wildly in front of two guys, who wore chagrined expressions.

“That’s Tommy Daley,” Jane said. “And no, he’s not related to Mayor Daley, so don’t ask. He hates that. Tommy is going to be the master of your universe around here. He’s the deputy news director. Although he also seems to think he’s the managing editor. And the assignment editor. And the executive producer. Anyway, he basically runs this show, so when he gets done chewing out those interns, get over there and introduce yourself.”

Tommy’s face had gotten very red, nearly purple, and he was leaning in toward one intern, shaking his finger in his face and spewing some kind of speech.

I turned around to Jane. “I’m not sure I want Tommy to be the master of my universe.”

She laughed. “His bark is worse than his bite.”

“One minute!” someone yelled. “This is it, folks! One minute to airtime.”

Jane’s smile got larger, her eyes excited.

“Good luck!” I said, squeezing her hand.

“Thanks. Good luck to you, too. Have fun.”

She stepped back up on the anchor desk and sat down. She threaded a tiny microphone under her suit jacket and attached it to the collar, right below her red scarf.

“Ten seconds!” the voice called.

Jane took a big breath and blew it out, glancing around the set with a look that seemed filled with pride. But then her head froze and the expression on her face changed to one of surprise, and then, if I was reading her right, to one of fear.

I followed her sight line to Tommy, who stood toward the back of the room now, speaking to another man. The man had a notepad and seemed to be interviewing Tommy, jotting things on the pad as they spoke. I peered closer and realized the guy making notes was the writer from Friday night. The writer who wrote books. The one Jane had gone home with.