53

I could feel someone watching me. I could feel it even before I opened my eyes. I kept my eyes closed, trying to wake up, trying to make sense of the jumbled, jagged images in my dreams, all of them red-the blood on Jane’s body, her scarf. And the fear that tinged my sleep-that had an alarming red hue to it, too. And now someone was watching me. I knew it. I opened my eyes.

I yelped. “Sam!” I sucked in a lungful of refreshing air.

I was exhausted last night, and sleep had finally come so hard that I’d forgotten that Sam had skipped rugby practice and come to my place. Or maybe I’d forgotten because I was accustomed now to sleeping without him. Or maybe it was because I didn’t want to remember how odd it had been between us last night. Sam came over, and he’d listened to my tale of being questioned. We’d analyzed the situation from every angle possible. He comforted me. But there was a distance between us, as if we’d stumbled over something that night at North Pond Café, and we hadn’t been able to get to our feet yet.

Now, he scooped me into him, and I curled against his warm chest. “I was waiting until the last minute to wake you up,” he said.

“What time is it?”

“Five after five.”

“I have to go. I have to get to the studio for makeup.”

“Call in sick.”

“I’m not sick.”

“You’ve got an unbelievable amount going on in your life, and you’re going to make yourself sick if you keep going like this.”

And he didn’t even know about Theo, about the fact that he was my alibi for the night the cops thought I was with Jane, about the fact that I still couldn’t reach him. “I have to keep going,” I said. “And this is my job, Sam. I really like it. And I’m also doing it for Jane, despite the fact that the cops seem to think that I killed her to get it.”

“I can’t believe they’ll stick with that theory for long. You’re the least violent person in the country.”

“I know!” I sat up. “Remember that bug in our room in Mexico?”

He laughed. “That wasn’t a bug. It was a small aircraft masquerading as a bug. And you still wanted me to get it out of the room instead of killing it.”

“Exactly. It’s crazy that they think I did something to Jane.”

Sam shook his head. “You know what? I’ve been thinking about this. You said Detective Vaughn was a jerk to you when he questioned you last year.”

I nodded. Neither of us mentioned that the reason I was questioned was because Sam had disappeared. We were both so tired of talking about it, of analyzing it, that somewhere along the way we’d both started pretending it hadn’t happened.

“He’s probably just being a jerk now,” Sam continued. “I mean, he hasn’t told anyone you’re a person of interest. Maybe you’re not. Maybe he’s doing this to a bunch of people. He’s just a jerk.”

I went with that sentiment. I got ready for work, and because it was still raining, I took a cab to Trial TV. All the while, I repeated in my mind, He’s just a jerk. He’s just a jerk. He’s just a jerk.

Meanwhile, I had to talk to someone about the guy I’d taken home Friday night, the guy who was my alibi for that night. I needed to talk to someone who would never judge me.

I called Q from my cell phone. “So, you remember Theo?”

“The twenty-one-year-old?”

“Yeah.”

“I think the brakes on the train might be screeching and I’m heading for a crash.”

“Oh, Jesus, tell me.”

“Promise not to say I told you so?”

“Never.”

I sighed. I told him about Vaughn’s questions about Friday night, how Theo was in Mexico and unreachable.

I expected Q to laugh, to be delighted, to hoot and holler and give me hell and somehow make me feel better.

Instead, I heard silence, then a soft, “Yeesh.”

“Yeesh? What’s that mean?”

“Yeesh, like this might not be the fun train wreck I expected. This sounds like a full-on plane crash. With two-hundred and fifty people on board. Into the Indian Ocean. Everyone dead.”

“Is that supposed to be funny?”

“No. I mean, I’m sorry, but this detective could get you in some serious trouble here.”

“He’s just an asshole.” It felt good to swear.

Q said nothing-no quip words, no mocking jest.

I blinked. I looked out the cab window at a vacant lot on Clybourn, Q’s reaction making me feel even more vacant. And terrified.

The cab turned onto Webster. “I have to go.”

“Can I do anything?”

“Go to Mexico and find the train wreck?”

Still no laugh from him. Just a “Let me know.”

I walked through the halls of Trial TV, trying to focus on the day, trying not to think about Jane or Vaughn. I had nearly gotten myself out of the twist in my head when C.J. came running into the makeup room. We were only minutes from going on-air with the morning broadcast, and I’d been reading my script. I’d finally gotten the hang of reading it beforehand, making it sound fresh when I read it again on air.

C.J. wore dark jeans and a white blazer today. Her expression was stern under her dark glasses.

“I just wanted to give you the heads-up,” she said. “New script.” She handed it to me. “And one of the stories is about Jane.”

My breath caught in my lungs and seemed to come back up so that I felt as if I had choked on something invisible. “What about Jane?”

“We don’t know. The cops have called a press conference.”

“To say what?”

“They won’t give us anything.” C.J.’s stern expression turned to anguish. “Maybe they have a lead.”

Or maybe they have a person of interest.

“Izzy, we need you on set!” I heard someone call from outside the room.

C.J. followed me out while I left the room, the makeup artist scampering beside me, patting me with more powder. No one could forget my flop sweat attack a few days ago, and as a result, I was the most thoroughly powdered newscaster in the city.

I got settled on the desk-Jane’s desk, I always thought of it-my eyes reading over the new script. There was a notation I didn’t recognize in front of the story about the press conference.

“What does this mean?” I asked C.J., pointing to it.

“Means you’ll cut to that story whenever the cops start the meat of the conference. We don’t know exactly what time that will be. Just listen for your cue.”

Should I tell C.J. that the press conference might be about me?

“Clear set,” I heard. “Izzy, ready?”

“Uh…” There was no time.

They started the countdown.

“Good luck,” C.J. said, stepping away from the anchor desk.

I arranged my suit so I was sitting on the jacket to pull it straight. I arranged my face so it didn’t give the impression of utter panic. I tried to keep positive. I kept repeating my mantra, He’s just an asshole. He’s just an asshole.

And then we were on.

I read and I turned and I smiled and I cut to field reporters, but the whole time, I felt as if my skin was zinging with anticipation. I was almost relieved when I heard in my ear, “Go to the Augustine story,” and I spoke the words, “Let’s go live to Tom Bennett at Police Headquarters on South Michigan Avenue here in Chicago. Tom has the latest on the murder of our colleague, Jane Augustine.”