23

W hen I arrived at the bar at six, there was no sign of Jane.

The place she’d chosen was a Latin bar/restaurant on Illinois Street. Jane said she loved the place, and I could see why. It was a sexy, splashy lounge with sensual drum-based music.

The bar was packed so I stood at the back, behind the crowd. After a while, I checked my watch. Jane was definitely late, which was curious, since her newscaster background usually made her exceptionally punctual. But then again, the day had been a hectic one.

I texted her-I’m here. Want me to order something for you?

I shifted back and forth and looked around. Still no Jane. I checked my watch a few times. Had I misunderstood her somehow? I called, but her phone rang and then went to voice mail.

The River East Arts Center, where the party was being held, was on the same block as the bar. Maybe she was already there?

I hustled down Illinois Street, where the Arts Center was lit up and glowing. Located not far from Navy Pier, the gallery was an elegant two-story loft space, which overlooked the river and was decorated with everything from sculptures to oil paintings to pop art. As I walked around, searching for Jane, I peered at some of the discreet stickers at the bottom of the art. Most of the pieces cost as much as I could make in a year at the Fig Leaf.

But Trial TV had spared no expense for their opening party. A band stood in front of the glass wall and belted out jazz numbers. Waiters circled with glasses of sparkling wine. The place was full of elegant people laughing, toasting.

All they needed was a lead newscaster.

I went back to the bar to find it was still packed. I couldn’t even make my way to the front. And still no sign of Jane.

By now, she was half an hour late. I called and got her voice mail again. I texted once more-Are you on your way?

When she was forty-five minutes late, I went back to the gallery.

Tommy Daley came up to me. He wore the same gray shirt and yellow tie he’d worn to work, but he’d put a shabby tan blazer over it. “Have you seen Jane?”

“I’m looking for her, too. We were supposed to meet up the street, but she didn’t show.”

“Goddamn it. Ari Adler arrives in five minutes, and Jane was supposed to greet him. Find her, will ya? Find her now.”

I called Jane three times, texted her twice and checked the restaurant again. Still no sign.

I thought of her words earlier this afternoon. She was going to see a friend. I need someone to get my head straight, she said.

Who was the friend she was meeting? Was it really a friend or one of her flings? Jane said that Zac was gone. Would she have met the person at her place?

Jane’s town house wasn’t far-just a few minutes by cab ride. I went out front, where a row of cabs waited. A couple minutes later, I was in front of her house. The lights were on, just like the other night. Was Jane still here getting ready? Maybe running late?

I gave the cab cash and asked if he could wait. If Jane was simply late and was ready now, we’d be back in time to greet Ari Adler.

I hurried up the front steps and rang the doorbell. I could hear the sound echoing inside, a vacant sound.

I peered in the window to my right. I saw the chairs where Sam and Charlie and I had sat a few nights before. At the thought of that night, and the scarf shaped like a noose, I felt a chill travel through my body.

I rang the doorbell again. Still no Jane. I called her. “Jane, I’m standing outside your house,” I said to her voice mail. “Where are you?”

I waved at the cab driver, signaling for one more minute.

He shook his head and yelled out the window, “I go!”

“No, wait!”

But he pulled away.

“Damn,” I muttered, then pounded on the door. Even if Jane was home, we’d now have to hunt for a cab, which would take up valuable time.

For lack of anything else to do, I tried the doorknob.

It turned in my hand. The hairs on my arms stood up. Some internal alarm went off inside my body. I pushed the door, and it swung open, making a silent, invisible arc.

What I saw inside formed the basis for another kind of moment. Not a mundane one, certainly not. But it was a moment that would crystallize and freeze in my mind.

And this one would leave a deep, deep stain.

24

“J ane!” I yelled.

She was lying on her side, beneath a hall table. From the position of her body, she looked, almost, as if she’d gotten on the floor to search for something-a dropped earring or a coin-and had lain down for a second. But she was eerily still, her head resting on one arm, the other arm lifeless, draped across the back of her neck.

That arm was covered with blood. And then I noticed more-her hair matted with it; spatters of red over her white suit; a puddle of it underneath her face. For a surreal second, with that pool of maroon and the bright red splashes on the white backdrop of her clothing, she looked like a piece of art from the gallery.

But then reality rushed in with a whoosh, and I heard screams of terror in my head.

I dropped my purse and ran to her side. “Jane!”

I knelt next to her, my mind careening, staggering, shrieking.

I touched her waist. As if only a hairline string had held her in that position, her body turned over so that she was lying on her back. A gurgling sound came from her throat. She’s okay, I thought.

But then blood bubbled from her mouth.

“Oh my God!” I recoiled for a moment, shocked by the blood.

I waited for a second to see if she would cough. Nothing. Her eyes were open. Tiny red flecks dotted the whites of them like bloody pinpricks. Her red scarf was tied tight around her neck, matted with blood.

I felt her wrist. Cold. No pulse. I had to be wrong. I pressed deeper into her flesh. “Oh, God, please. Jane, please!

“Help!” I yelled. My voice seemed to bounce off the taupe walls and lacquered floors and answered me with emptiness.

I kept praying out loud, kept begging in my head to feel the beat, beat, beat that would mean Jane Augustine was still alive. Nothing.

I was suddenly freezing cold. Panting with anxiety. Who had done this to her?

It hit me then-whoever it was could still be here. My head jerked back and forth, looking around. But the place looked the same as when I’d been here two nights ago-a lovely town house, everything else in order.

I looked back at Jane.

What should I do? What should I do?

Mouth-to-mouth resuscitation?

I began to lean toward Jane, but that sickening burbling sound arose from her throat again. More blood.

I leapt to my feet and found my purse, my hands shaking violently when I opened it, accidentally hurling its contents over the floor as I searched for the phone.

“No!” My battery was dead. With Theo at my place last night, I’d forgotten to charge it, and with all the calls and texts I’d made to Jane, I’d depleted it.

I bolted to my feet and hurried through the living room. Where was their house phone? I couldn’t find it.

I darted around the town house-kitchen, dining room, back to the living room. My heart thundered, my eyes were wild. Finally, I spotted a small cordless phone on the bookshelf next to the fireplace.

My fingers felt like unwieldy pieces of wood on the buttons. I panted, moaned. At last I dialed 911.

“Chicago,” a man’s voice said. “Emergency call center.”

“Jane Augustine,” I said. “I think she’s dead.”