Sara turned around, reached into the top drawer of her nightstand, pulled out a set of keys, and threw them at Jared. “These’ll get you into Pop’s apartment. Take your stuff and get out of my face.”

“Are you kidding me?” Jared asked, stunned.

“That’s my decision,” Sara said. “Now leave.”

“Are you sure you-”

“Get out. Now.”

He shook his head with confused rage. “You’re going to regret this one.”

“We’ll see.”

He stormed to his closet with his jaw clenched. Wait until she’s alone, he thought. Then she’ll see she overreacted. In a blur of hostility, he pounded from room to room until he was done collecting suits, toiletries, and enough clothes to get him through the weekend. But it wasn’t until he was finally ready to leave that Jared realized what was happening.

As he carried his black hanging bag to the door, he saw Sara sitting in the dark of the living room. Her briefcase was leaning against the couch. Instantly, rage gave way to reality. “I’m going,” he said in a soft voice.

She didn’t respond.

“Sara, I’m-”

“I heard you.”

Jared put his hand on the doorknob. “I just want you to know I’m sorry.”

“You should be.”

“I am. I really am,” he said. He didn’t want to leave now, but he had no idea what to say. Searching for the perfect words, he came up empty. Finally, he blurted, “Are you sure you want me to go?”

Again, Sara didn’t respond. She watched him carefully. He looked so vulnerable as he stood there, his hanging bag sagging from his shoulder. An awkward silence filled the room. Jared tried to read his wife’s blank expression. Slowly, he lowered his bag to the floor.

“Don’t do that,” Sara said.

“But you-”

“I’m not changing my mind, Jared. I want you out.”

That was it. She wasn’t going to take it back. Turning away, Jared opened the door. Without another word, he was gone.

The first thing that hit him was the silence. He was unfazed by the photographs of Sara and her parents that decorated the long walls of the entryway. He barely registered the familiar stale smell that was reminiscent of his own grandparents’ house. But as he entered Pop’s modest apartment on East Seventy-sixth Street, the one thing Jared couldn’t ignore was the piercing silence.

“Hello?” he called out just to make some noise. “Anybody here?” No one answered.

With his hanging bag still slumping from his shoulder, Jared dragged himself inside and dropped his belongings. He headed quickly to Pop’s bedroom, and just as quickly decided that he didn’t want to sleep in Pop’s bed. It didn’t feel right. After hunting around for the linen closet, Jared pulled out some sheets and a blanket, opened the sleeper sofa, and made his new bed. All he had to do was lie in it.

It’s only until the case is over, he told himself. That’s all she meant, isn’t it? Unwilling to face the answer, he walked back up the entryway and double-checked the lock on the front door. Unlike the door in his own apartment, which had two different dead bolts as well as a chain, Pop’s front door had only a single lock – the same one that had originally been in the door when Pop moved in, almost twenty years ago. For Pop, the single lock was more than enough to make him feel safe. For Jared, it was an entirely different story. Jared wasn’t worried about a lock. He wasn’t even worried about himself. He was worried about his wife. And the longer he was gone, the less Sara was protected.

Returning to the living room, Jared picked up the phone from the coffee table and dialed his home number. C’mon, honey, pick up. The phone rang again. C’mon, Sara, I know you’re there. And again. Are you there? And again. Where are you? And again. Sara, now you’re scaring me. Are you-

“Hello,” she finally answered, her voice groggy and hoarse.

“Sorry to wake you. I just wanted to let you know I got in okay and that-”

Sara hung up.

Jared quietly put down the phone. She was safe. For now.

She hadn’t been able to sleep since his phone call. She was fine when he left the apartment, and she was fine when she didn’t know where he was, but from the moment he called to say he was okay, she couldn’t relax. Maybe it was the sound of his voice, or maybe it was her conscience. Either way, it was finally starting to sink in. She’d have to do this one alone.

At four-thirty in the morning, Sara was still wide awake. First she tried a cup of hot tea with some warm milk. Then she tried listening to classical music. Then she wondered if there was something else she was missing. In her experience, she knew that if she couldn’t fall asleep, it was either because she was still reliving the previous day, or because she was afraid of facing the coming one. In this case, Sara realized that both statements were true. And as she instinctively curled up to the pillows on Jared’s side of the bed, she knew it wasn’t going to be an easy night.

“What’d he die of?” Walter Fawcett asked bluntly the following morning. A heavy, rough-spoken man with a thick mustache and even thicker glasses, Fawcett was one of the ten medical examiners assigned to perform autopsies in Manhattan. Standing outside the autopsy room, in the basement of the office of the chief medical examiner, Fawcett and Sara went over the details of Arnold Doniger’s death.

“According to his wife and his death certificate, he went into a coma brought on by his diabetes,” Sara explained, rubbing her bloodshot eyes. “Apparently, his blood sugar was too low.”

“Earlier, you said the paramedics brought him in. Was there anything significant in their report?”

Handing Fawcett a copy of the report, she explained, “According to this, Arnold was acting a bit cranky throughout the night of his death. His wife said he regularly had fits of anger caused by his diabetes, so she just assumed his blood sugar was low and gave him some apple juice and a granola bar. A few hours later, right before he went to bed, she saw him give himself a shot. When she wakes up the next morning, he’s lying dead next to her. She freaks out and calls an ambulance. End of story.”

“That’s never the end,” Fawcett said. “We’ll find more.” When he was done looking at the report, he handed it back to Sara. “You staying for the autopsy?” Lost in her own world, Sara didn’t reply. Fawcett snapped his fingers in front of her face. “You with us here?” he asked.

“Huh?” Sara asked, jolted back to reality. “I’m sorry. What’d you say?”

“One, I asked if you’re staying for the autopsy. Two, I’m asking what’s got you so preoccupied?”

“Nothing really – just another part of the case,” Sara explained. “And as far as the autopsy goes, I have to be in court by noon, but I was hoping I’d be able to watch. Everyone in the office said it’d be helpful to see how one’s done.”

“They don’t know what they’re talking about,” Fawcett said as he headed toward the autopsy room. “But if you think it’s critical, go put on some scrubs.”

“They’re doing an autopsy?” Rafferty asked as he took a seat in front of Jared’s desk.

“According to the one file I did see, they dug the body up last night, and they’re dissecting him this morning,” Jared said.

“And that’s when she caught you?” Kozlow asked from his usual chair in the back of the office. “Oh, man, you must’ve-”

“That’s enough,” Jared interrupted. “I don’t want to hear it.”

“Lame move, buddy.”

“I’ll take care of it,” Jared said. “I only took about three days’ worth of clothes with me, so I still have an excuse to go back there. Besides, it’s not like she changed the locks.”

“Not yet,” Kozlow said.

“Is there anything we can do to stop the autopsy?” Rafferty demanded.

“We can try to block it, but personally, I think that’ll do more harm than good. The last thing we want is to appear more suspicious.”