“Give me one more talk with Dr. Wallace,” Mayburn said, “and I think I can get her. And hey, you’re going back to the Fig Leaf tomorrow, right? You’re supposed to get paid once a week.”

I groaned. That was another thing I hadn’t thought about. “You’re not going to make me go back there after what happened?”

“I’m already working on getting a van that will look like a utility truck. It’ll sit outside the store. I’ll be watching you guys through the front windows, and all you have to do, if you can, is get one of the black pearl thongs. Once you’ve got it, run out, and we’re out of there.”

“Don’t you think Josie might have seen me on the news by now?”

“Not everybody is dialed in. Some people never watch the news. You walk in and you’ll be able to tell right away if she recognizes you. If she does, turn right around and walk out.”

I reached Clybourn Avenue. I saw Uncle Julio’s Hacienda, a Mexican restaurant where Sam and I used to go for brunch on Sunday mornings.

Sam. Was he home yet? It seemed long ago since I had talked to him this morning. It seemed long ago since all was right with us. And something about that gap felt weighty, different.

“C’mon, you have to do this for me,” Mayburn was saying. “Josie has something going on at the Fig Leaf, and we’re close to finding out what. Just get me one of those thongs.”

I groaned again. “I guess since you’re helping me.”

“Great. And I’m going to keep helping you. Dr. Ismael up next.” He clicked off.

I pulled my mind away from Sam. But that only left Jane. And Zac and Zoey and Theo and Prince. And then there was Mick. He’d admitted to following her. Essentially, he’d admitted to stalking her. And now the creep planned to write a tell-all book about Jane, something that infuriated me.

I called information for Mick’s home number. No listing.

I got off the phone and drove to his house, parking in front, punching the hazard lights on Grady’s car. There were no reporters or TV cameramen around. Maybe they’d decided Mick’s part of the story was done. But I knew there was another story-the one he was working on about Jane. The thought that his book could slaughter Jane’s memory, the same way she’d been slaughtered, sickened me further.

I stormed up the front stairs and pounded on his maroon door, really, really hoping he was home.

He was. He opened the door, blinked a few times when he saw me, then looked over my shoulders and peered around me.

“There’s no press here.” I crossed my arms over my chest. “I’m here to tell you that you can’t…” I took a breath, tried to calm down. I would likely get nowhere if I unleashed my anger on this guy. “I’m here to ask you a favor.”

“Uh, okay.” He wore a white T-shirt and old jeans. His gray hair was messed in places as if he’d been in the house and napping all day.

“Don’t write this story about Jane.”

He studied me, said nothing. Then, “Are you saying that because you don’t want to be part of the story yourself?”

“No! I just don’t want anyone to forget Jane.”

He squinted. “Well, then I better write this book.”

“But it’s going to be about Jane’s affairs, not who Jane really was.”

“I think you’re making a philosophical distinction. Maybe what she did off-air defined who she was.”

“No,” I said again, frustrated. “Look, have you told the press about your book?”

“Not yet. The timing isn’t right. I don’t want the PR until it hits the shelves.”

“Why is everything about PR and your book?”

He laughed. “Are you kidding? Because that’s my world. That’s what I do. Norman Mailer once said…”

“Shut up about Norman Mailer! Why do you always quote Norman Mailer?”

He looked amused at my outburst. He peered over my shoulder again. This time I followed his gaze and saw that a few people were standing on the street, watching us. They didn’t look like media.

“Come inside,” Mick said.

I stepped into his small foyer so we were out of earshot, but I wouldn’t go any farther. The other night I’d been emboldened by the fact that the press was outside. I’d felt relatively protected. But now it was only Mick and me.

I crossed my arms again. “This is not going to be a long conversation. Just tell me you’ll consider forgetting this story.”

“No way. Mailer said-”

“Jesus!” I interrupted. “Why are you so fascinated by Norman Mailer?”

“Because he knew what it was like to be a writer. He ran for Mayor of New York. He was married six times. He had all these mistresses.”

“So what? I don’t get it. Do you have some kind of fascination with people who cheat?”

“No, I have a fascination for people who live their lives. Really live them. For the most part, Mailer was like that. He jumped in, and he gobbled up life. He didn’t hole up in the woods.”

“Ah.” I actually felt a little sympathy for Mick then.

“What’s that mean, that ‘ah’?”

“Well, it’s not that hard to figure out, is it? I’m sure some therapist has told you already, but clearly you’re looking to idealize a male figure who wasn’t like your father.”

His amused expression turned solemn with an underlying edge of anger. “You don’t know anything about my father.”

“I just know what I’ve read. That he moved you and your mom to some tiny town in Maine and lived out his years there.”

Mick shook his head, but only minutely, as if he was trying to hold back his movements. “I looked up to Norman because he was different than my dad, sure. And I choose not to be like my father. It’s not as subconscious as you might think.”

“So then you are able to choose. You can choose whether to be a-” I searched for a replacement word and came up with none “-a dickhead,” I said, “and slander Jane’s good name or not.”

“It’s not slander or libel if it’s true. You’re a lawyer, you should know that.”

“No, it’s still slander and libel. It’s just that you have a defense to it if it’s true. As a lawyer, I’ll tell you that you’d also have a defense because of the fact that Jane is dead. But as a human being I’m asking you not to use those defenses.”

“Are you saying I’m inhumane?” He seemed to find this funny.

“Look, you clearly have daddy issues, and I can see why…”

Apparently, that comment was not so funny. His eyes narrowed, jaw muscles tensed.

“Look,” I pointed at him. “You’re getting pissed. I don’t even know why, and really I don’t care. I mean, I know it’s about your dad, and I’m guessing you’re annoyed because I don’t know the whole story. I just read something and now I’m spouting it back. And that’s exactly what you’re doing to Jane if you write this stuff about her or let it get out. Two wrongs don’t make a right, Mick. Don’t turn around and do to Jane what was done to your family.”

He said nothing.

“And if you did anything to Jane,” I said, “then you should talk about it. You should tell that story.”

His face relaxed. “From what I hear, you’re the one they think should come clean.”

I felt him study me. What was I doing trying to talk this guy, this investigative journalist, out of writing about Jane? He was probably analyzing me right now so he could write about me. I uncrossed my arms. “I should go.”

He said nothing. He was looking at me with some expression I couldn’t read. A curiosity, certainly, but not the salacious curiosity that I would have expected.

I turned and walked down the steps and onto Goethe Street, unsure what to do next.

Traffic whizzed by on LaSalle Street. I heard shouts from Wells Street in the other direction. It was almost Saturday night. I thought about how just over a week ago, I didn’t know I would be a news reporter, an anchor, a suspect. Now my skin tingled with a weird kind of energy, my body twitched with a premonitory buzz. And a question occurred to me-if it had all changed so much in only one week, what could happen next?