A Google of Allison Stallings eventually revealed that she was a writer of true crime with one publication under her belt, a low-budget mass market exposé of a domestic homicide in Columbus, Georgia. The book wasn’t even listed on Amazon.

Stallings had also earned photography credits in the Columbus Ledger-Inquirer, and one big score with the Associated Press.

Dear God. The woman was snooping for book ideas.

Around three, I checked my e-mail. There was a message from the OCME in Chapel Hill. It made three points. The chief was deeply troubled by my rant Friday morning. I was to abstain from all contact with the press. I’d be hearing from him first thing on Tuesday.

Ryan didn’t call.

Charlie didn’t call.

Birdie threw up on the bathroom rug.

In between e-mails and phone calls and vomit and tears, I cleaned. Not the run-the-vacuum-swipe-a-dust-cloth type slicking-up. I attacked the Annex with fury, toothbrush-scrubbing the bathroom grout, scouring the oven, changing the AC filters, defrosting the freezer, discarding just about everything in the medicine cabinet.

The intense physical activity worked. Until I stopped.

At six, I stood in my gleaming kitchen, grief once again threatening to overwhelm my composure. Birdie was in bunker mode atop the refrigerator.

“This won’t do, Bird,” I said.

The cat studied me, still wary of the vacuum.

“I should do something to lift my spirits.”

No response from the lofty height of the Sub-Zero.

“Chinese,” I said. “I’ll order Chinese.”

Bird repositioned his two front paws, centering them under his upraised chin.

“I know what you’re thinking,” I said. “You can’t constantly sit home eating out of little white cartons.”

Bird neither agreed nor disagreed.

“Good point. I’ll go to Baoding and order all my favorites.”

And that’s what I did.

And the day really hit the mung heap.

Though restaurant dining is among my favorite activities, I’ve always felt the need of a social component. When alone, I eat with Birdie, in front of the TV.

But Baoding is a southeast Charlotte end-of-the-weekend tradition. On Sunday evenings I always see faces I know.

That night was no exception.

Unhappily, these were not faces I wanted to, well, face.

Martinis are a Baoding specialty, particularly for those awaiting takeout. Not very Chinese, but there it is.

When I entered, Pete was at the bar, talking to a woman seated on his right. Both were drinking what I guessed were apple martinis.

Quick reversal of course.

Too late.

“Tempe. Yo! Over here.”

Springing from his stool, Pete caught me before I could escape out the door.

“You have to meet Summer.”

“It’s not a good-”

Beaming, Pete tugged me across the restaurant. Summer had turned and was now gazing in our direction.

It was worse than I’d imagined. Summer was overblond, with breasts the size of beach balls, and far too little blouse to accommodate them. During introductions, she wrapped a territorial hand around Pete’s upper arm.

I offered congratulations on their engagement.

Summer thanked me. Coolly.

Pete beamed on, oblivious to the hypothermics.

I asked how wedding plans were progressing.

Summer shrugged, speared an apple slice with a red plastic swizzle stick.

Mercifully, at that moment their order arrived.

Summer popped from her stool like a spring-loaded doll. Snatching the bag, she mumbled, “Nice to meetcha,” and made for the door, leaving a gale of fleur-de-something in her wake.

“She’s nervous,” Pete said.

“Undoubtedly,” I said.

“You OK?” Pete studied my face. “You look tired.”

“Rinaldi was killed yesterday.”

Pete’s brows did that confusion thing they do.

“Eddie Rinaldi. Slidell’s partner.”

“The cop shooting that’s been all over the news?”

I nodded.

“You’ve known Rinaldi forever.”

“Yes.”

“You were there?”

“Yes.”

“Shit, Tempe. I’m really sorry.”

“Thanks.”

“You holding up all right?”

“Yes.” I could manage only monosyllabic replies.

Pete took my hand. “I’ll call you.”

I nodded, faked a smile, afraid speaking would unleash the pain that was a tangible presence in my chest.

“That’s my Tempe. Tough as a lumberjack.”

Pete kissed my cheek. Then he was gone.

Closing my eyes, I gripped the back of Summer’s empty bar stool. Behind me, conversation burbled. Cheerful diners, enjoying the company of others.

My nose took in sesame oil, garlic, and soy, smells from the happy years, when Pete, Katy, and I made Sunday-evening outings to Baoding.

The past few days had been overwhelming. Rinaldi. Katy. The chief. Boyce Lingo. Takeela Freeman. Jimmy Klapec. Susan Redmon. Now Pete and Summer.

I felt a tremor low in my chest.

Took a deep breath.

“Waiting for take-out?” The voice was right at my ear.

I opened my eyes. Charlie Hunt was leaning down, face close to mine.

“Buy you a Perrier?” Charlie asked.

What I did next I will always regret.

“Buy me a martini,” I said.

23

I DON’T REMEMBER THE REST OF THAT NIGHT OR MUCH OF MONDAY. Arguing with Charlie. Driving. Tossing items into a supermarket cart. Fighting with a corkscrew. Otherwise, thirty-six hours of my life disappeared.

Tuesday morning I awoke alone in my bed. Though the sun was just cresting the horizon, I could tell the day would be clear. Wind teased the magnolia leaves outside my window, flipping some to show their undersides pale against the dark green of their unturned brethren.

The jeans I’d worn Sunday lay kicked to a baseboard. My shirt and undies hung from a chair back. I was wearing sweats.

Birdie was watching me from under the dresser.

Downstairs, the TV was blaring.

I sat up and swung my feet to the floor, testing.

My mouth felt dry, my whole body dehydrated.

OK. Not too bad.

I stood.

Blood exploded into my dilated cranial vessels. My eyeballs pounded.

I lay back down. The pillow smelled of Burberry and sex.

Dear God. I couldn’t face students in my condition.

Staggering to my laptop, I sent an e-mail to my lab and teaching assistant, Alex, saying I was ill and asking if she could proctor the bone quiz then dismiss class.

When I raised my lids again the cat was gone and the clock said eight.

Forcing myself vertical, I trudged to the shower. After, my hands trembled as I combed wet tangles from my hair and brushed my teeth.

Downstairs, the classic movie channel was pumping out The Great Escape. I found the remote and clicked off as Steve McQueen cycle-jumped a barbwire fence.

The kitchen told the story like a graphic novel. Heaped in the sink were remnants of a frozen pizza and Dove Bar wrappers and sticks. Two empty wine bottles sat on the counter. A third, half-empty, had been abandoned on the table beside a single glass.

I ate a bowl of cornflakes and knocked back two aspirins with coffee. Then I threw up.

Though I rebrushed my teeth, my mouth still tasted noxious. I chugged a full glass of water. Tried Advil.

As expected, nothing helped. I knew only time and metabolism would provide relief.

I was crushing the pizza box when my mind began to dial into focus.

It was Tuesday. I’d spoken to no one since Sunday.

Though Monday was a holiday, I’d surely been missed.

Smashing the crumpled cardboard into the trash, I hurried to the phone.

Dead air.

I followed the cord to the wall. The connector was snugly snapped into its jack. I began checking extensions.

The bedroom handheld was buried under the discarded jeans. It had been left in talk mode, blocking operation of the rest of the system.