85

W hen I walk out of the bar, the city feels razor-fresh. My senses are heightened. Sam is still inside, and for now I’m on my own. And I am fine. More than fine.

The brick of the buildings, which so recently looked dusty red, is vividly bright now, each brick like a poppy in a bouquet. The El train’s rumble is melodic. The smell of food cooking, of car exhaust, of spring earth-it all mixes in the air and wafts down the street. The sirens, so frequent in the city, are no longer in the background. Now, even though distant, they cut through my mind like bands, each one clear, bright, distinguishable. I will never hear a siren and not think of Jane. And after a while, that won’t be a bad thing.

After a while, Sam and I might get back together, or we won’t. We will be friends, people forever bonded, or we won’t. I will investigate the story of Jackson Prince and get back into the news business, or I won’t. I will find myself in the law again, or I won’t. Maggie will forgive Wyatt again or she won’t. Q will find a new profession he loves, or he won’t. My brother Charlie will get the job and not rely so much on my mother, or he won’t.

I will be okay with starting over again, or…or I will.

Book Club Questions

What do you think of Jane’s dalliances? Would you be able to handle a roaming spouse? Are acts of infidelity always wrong or are there gray areas?

What does the book say about monogamy, relationships, sexuality and forgiveness?

What did you think about the scarf, and, in particular, the symbolism of the color red and the way that Jane sometimes used the scarf? Did it expose something about her personality?

Does the city of Chicago look different from the back of Izzy’s Vespa? If you live in Chicago did those scenes make you want to buy one? Does touring Chicago on a Vespa give the city more energy, make you feel a sense of freedom?

What did you think of the shifting point of view from first person (in Izzy’s voice) to occasional third person (from Jane’s point of view or that of Zac, Mick, etc.?)

Is there a character in this book you identify with? One you love to hate? One you really love?

Did you guess the murderer’s identity prior to it being revealed? If not, who did you suspect?

Deleted Scenes

This passage was originally included in the scene at Old Town Ale House:

“Why are you pulling a George Thorogood?” Grady asked.

“Who’s George Thorogood?”

“You don’t know Thorogood?” He shook his head in a disgusted fashion. “He sings Bad to the Bone and that song, I Drink Alone. Why are you drinking by yourself?”

“I don’t know. I just decided to stop in.” There was something there. Something underneath all this activity of mine, but I didn’t want to get anywhere near it right now. “Hey, I started a new job today.”

“Does this have anything to do with the time you made me pretend to be your husband?”

I laughed a nervous laugh. It did, in fact. Last year, when Sam was gone, I’d made Grady act like my husband at a party Lucy was hosting. We were trying to get close to her, and Mayburn thought she’d be more likely to be friends with a family woman who lived in the same neighborhood. But Mayburn had told me a number of times that secrecy about any work I’d done for him was absolutely required.

So I just waved a hand at Grady now. “Nah,” I said. “I’m working at a place called The Fig Leaf. It’s a lingerie boutique.” I thought of that pearl thong, tucked in the silver-gray box. I had studied it when I got home from the store and I had to admit, now that I owned it, I was dying to try it out, to see if it would be silly or sexy, raunchy or ridiculous.

“So I have to tell you what they sell there,” I said, making my tone conversational. “Pearl thongs.”

Grady’s smile returned-a lopsided sexy grin. “Thong underwear made of pearls?”

“Mostly.”

“What’s the rest made out of?”

“Lace.”

“Color?”

“Well, they make them in black…” I couldn’t help it, I said it like it was a two syllable word-Ba-lack-and I made the “k” at the end click. Because I knew it would turn him on.

And apparently it did, because he was staring at my lips as I said the word, and then his lids dropped a little; his mouth opened a little; his bottom lip jutted almost imperceptibly.

I knew that look. I’d seen it six months ago right before he kissed me for the first time. I noticed the look only in retrospect when I was piecing together the night-trying to hold and grasp all those little bits that occurred around the large part-the hours of intense making out in a jazz bar. In remembering, I could see that moment before all that when I watched the person I knew as Grady, my buddy, go through a shift in the way he saw me-suddenly no longer just a buddy but someone sexual, someone he wanted very much to kiss.

Now, at the Ale House, I saw it again.

Our eyes synced up, and we held our gaze, neither of us saying anything. “But they also make a silver-gray color.”

“Are you going to get a pair and let me have a look?”

But before I could say anything, Grady leaned in close and kissed me. He started with my bottom lip, kissing there, taking the lip lightly between his teeth, then kissing my whole mouth. He really was a delicious kisser.

I pulled back for a second. “We’re in public,” I said in a mock-disapproving voice. What I was really thinking was that I didn’t need to add another man to my roster for the weekend. I had already surprised myself enough with Theo and Sam.

“We’re in the Ale House.” Grady said. “We can do anything in here. And don’t forget you made out with me for a whole night at Jilly’s once.”

I laughed. “I’ve just been sitting here remembering that.”

This passage was originally at the beginning of the book. Some of the wording made it into the final novel, but most was cut.

I knew, rationally, that I didn’t have it too bad. My fiancé was back, for example, even though we hadn’t figured out what to do about us. And I wasn’t facing foreclosure of my condo…yet. But fear was starting to nibble my insides and creep its way into my brain so that I seemed to buzz with apprehension, always nervous that the end of me was very, very near. So it didn’t matter that I had still had it good compared to other people, because the thing about life is that it’s all in the attitude. And my attitude had been decidedly flagging lately. Just this past week, the sight of my bank statement had forced me to violate one of the most basic tenets of womanhood-Never cut your own bangs. My orange-red hair, which hangs in long curls to the middle of my back, had seemed to be hanging straight into my eyes that day. I kept pushing it away, tucking it behind an ear, but it kept coming back to flop across my forehead and obscure my vision of the reality that I was poor. Soon to be much poorer.

With a burst, I knew I had to do something-something different-and that thought had propelled me to the bathroom with a pair of large scissors I normally used for cutting open packages. Saying a silent apology to my stylist, I gathered a hunk of the offending hair in my hands. And I sliced.

I regretted immediately. You always do. Now, I feared what other irrational acts I’d attempt to tamp my nervousness.

In the first draft of the book, Izzy wasn’t questioned as extensively immediately following Jane’s murder, and originally, I hadn’t intended on bringing back the detective from Red Hot Lies. This passage was the first indication Izzy had that the police were looking at her as something more than a witness.