“You’re on thin ice,” she said.

I wasn’t sure precisely what she meant but I nodded.

“So you’d better be careful.”

41

L ater that night my cell phone rang. Mayburn, the display read.

“It’s cleaned out,” he said.

“What is?”

“The garage. I just went over there.”

“Are you kidding me?” I padded over the wood floor of my living room in pajamas and socks.

“There’s some basic stuff there, like a bench, newspapers, but nothing personal. I tracked down the owner of the place. He rents out the bungalow to a family and rented the garage on a month-by-month basis to some guy from the neighborhood.”

“Is the guy named Steve?”

“He says the name he gave him was Tobias Minter. He never ran a credit check because it was just the garage and it was month to month.”

“Did you look up Tobias Minter?”

“Yep, and the only one I could find with that name died in 1670.” He sighed. “How’s your head?”

“Killing me.”

“Did you take some Advil?”

“Is ten too many?”

“You’re kidding, right?”

“I wanted to take ten. I scaled it back to three.”

“Are you sure you don’t want to go to the hospital?”

“No, I don’t think I have a concussion, just a whopping headache. There’s not even a bump. The helmet saved me. Plus, I’m too tired. If I go to Northwestern, I’ll be there all night, and I have to go on-air in about seven hours.”

“I’m really sorry, Iz.”

“Aw, don’t be,” I said, trying to make light of the situation. “Everybody needs to get smacked around once in a while.” But really, the fear was still ringing inside me. I couldn’t stop thinking about Jane. About what she’d gone through. About me being a person of interest.

I told Mayburn about it.

“Oh, Jesus Christ,” Mayburn said. “A person of interest is not a good thing.”

“Thank you. I think I know that.”

“You gotta get the cops not to talk. They’ll smear you with this stuff if you let them.”

“Maggie is working on it.” Please, please, please let Maggie be able to do something.

“When can I pick up that pearl thong you bought tonight? I want to check it out.”

“Hey, no sharing Maggie’s pearl thong with Lucy.”

“Oh, she’s going to be getting her own, trust me.”

“I don’t know what’s with these thongs, but the odd thing is Josie seems to have two kinds-one that comes in a black box and one, like mine and Maggie’s, that comes in silver boxes. I’m not sure if they’re just different colors, but they seem to be from different manufacturers.

“Another odd thing is she keeps them locked up.”

“And the guy who delivered them was probably the one who smacked the hell out of me.”

He grunted. I could tell he was thinking. “We need to get both kinds of these thongs-the black and the silver-if I’m going to really check them out. When are you supposed to work again?”

“Sunday. But please don’t make me go back there. I’m even more scared of Josie than I am of Steve. Or whoever he is.” I leaned against the kitchen counter and rubbed my forehead with my hands.

“I don’t know if I want you going back there, either. Look, let’s take it one thing at a time. When can I get the thong you got for your friend?”

“I can bring it tomorrow to Trial TV.” I gave him the address.

“Got it. Call me if you don’t feel good.”

“I will.” Again, I thought of Sam and how I hadn’t called him earlier. It bothered me deeply. I told myself I shouldn’t place too much significance on it. After all, I was working on a case for Mayburn, and I’d promised him that I wouldn’t tell anyone. So it was natural that I’d think to call Mayburn.

But how natural was it that when Sam had called an hour later, I told him I wanted to be alone tonight?

Despite the connection we’d had last night, and the one we’d probably always have, that connection was no longer permeating our daily lives.

Something had come between Sam and me. And that something-that feeling of a gap, a vacancy where we used to be sealed tight-couldn’t be denied.

I went to bed by myself.

42

O n Wednesday morning, two days after Jane’s death, I sat in the studio’s interview area.

“This morning for our Coffee Break,” I read from the prompter, “we’re discussing a recent ruling on behalf of the plaintiffs in a lawsuit against King Pharmaceuticals. King is the target of a class action suit filed by famed Chicago lawyer Jackson Prince on behalf of patients he claims were injured or killed by the arthritis drug Ladera. Yesterday, a U.S. District Court denied a request by King to dismiss the suit.”

I glanced down at the written script and squeezed my knees together tight, just like C.J. told me. I heard her other instructions in my head-shift a little toward your guest then turn your torso slightly back to the camera. I did so, and out of the corner of my eye, I saw her giving me a thumbs-up.

I looked up at the prompter. “Joining us today is Jackson Prince himself. Good morning, Mr. Prince.”

I turned my body farther to face Prince, whose slate-gray suit complemented the blue leather of the chair behind him. He looked both casual and elegant, both scholarly and handsome. “Good morning. Thanks for having me, Isabel.” He beamed a megawatt smile full of perfect, white teeth.

“Can you tell us the impact of the judge’s ruling?”

Prince gave a nod of his head. “Judge Wainright’s ruling will finally put an end to the stalling tactics employed by King Pharmaceuticals, so that the many patients who died or were harmed by their drug can be compensated.” Prince went on, describing the lawsuit and the conduct of King Pharmaceuticals in more detail.

I nodded and smiled and occasionally furrowed my brows at the alleged wrongdoing of King Pharmaceuticals, but really I was thinking about Jane.

If Prince had been anxious and on guard when she had interviewed him two days ago, he certainly wasn’t now.

“He’s ready,” I heard in my ISB. “Go to satellite.”

“Joining us via satellite,” I read from the script, “is Howard Lemmon, attorney for King Pharmaceuticals. Mr. Lemmon, how does King respond to these allegations?” I looked at the monitor, trying not to squint at the sharp lines of light that beamed across the set, and watched as the attorney gave the standard corporation-being-sued statements, similar to those I used to give when defending Pickett Enterprises. “Thanks, Isabel. Although we believe the motion to dismiss should have been granted, we look forward to a trial on the merits…” Blah, blah, blah…“We want to show America and our stockholders that we have nothing to hide…” More blah. “We are proud of our research and the drugs that help to save millions of lives.”

I asked each lawyer a few more questions, then read, “Stay tuned to Trial TV, where we’ll be closely following the King Pharmaceuticals lawsuit. Thanks to our guests for joining us.” I turned to a different camera. “Coming up…” I read from the list of stories that would follow.

The monitors showing the King Pharmaceuticals attorney went blank. The lights over the leather chair grouping went dark. Jackson Prince stood and extended his hand to me, then grasped my hand with both of his, meeting my eyes and smiling in a way that appeared warm and friendly. Prince was used to connecting with people, I could tell, and under normal circumstances, I, too, would have been swayed by that gaze and that grasp. But there was something going on with Prince, according to Jane, something she had been about to reveal. And yet with her gone, he seemed very much at ease.

I hated, suddenly, that Jane was dead, that I was essentially standing in her shoes and yet neither Prince nor I was mentioning her.

“I saw you at Jane’s memorial,” I said.