I spent the rest of the reunion overcompensating. I worked that room as if I were running for homecoming queen. I wanted each and every person to tell Sam how fantastic his fiancée was. They did, and he barely seemed to notice Alyssa’s adoration. But I had.

Her name came up once or twice after that. Sam would tell me they e-mailed sometimes, usually as a group with the rest of their buddies from high school. Her name always sent an eruption of jealously through me, which I hated. I never wanted to be the envious girl who couldn’t handle past loves. I still thought fondly of Timmy, my college boyfriend, and Blake, a guy I dated during law school. But they were boys. Sam was a man.

Being the man he was, Sam chuckled when I made a jealous request that he not communicate with Alyssa, and he’d agreed. As far as I knew, he hadn’t had contact with Alyssa for over a year.

But now here was her name, sitting in his Sent folder.

I clicked on the e-mail, realizing I was holding my breath. Had he been corresponding with Alyssa all along? Had they made some plan to take off together? Was that why he’d stolen Forester’s shares? To fund some plan to run away together? My mind went crazy at the possibilities. I thought of every time I’d watched Inside Edition, fascinated by the stories of people who led double lives, never telling their family or friends.

Finally, Sam’s e-mail appeared.

Hey Alyssa, it read, Sorry I haven’t gotten back to you until now. Congrats on getting new funding for the research program. You might have heard that I’m engaged. I’ve been busy with the wedding coming up and with work. I won’t be able to join the crew over the holidays. Izzy and I will be on our honeymoon. Say hi to everyone for me, will you? And hello to your family, too. Tell your brother he still owes me fifty bucks from that poker game. Sam.

I sat back and relaxed my clenched shoulders. Sam was just responding to a few e-mails he had gotten from Alyssa. That was all. But why couldn’t I shake the feeling that there was more to it? I scrolled through his Sent box for the last year. There were no other e-mails to Alyssa; he’d honored my request to cut off contact with her. So why had he decided to e-mail her one week before he disappeared? Just a coincidence?

Suddenly, I felt the need for fresh air. I turned off the computer and put on running shoes and an old leather jacket of Sam’s. I grabbed my keys and headed outside. Taking walks around my neighborhood always cleared my head, even at night. I knew the area well and usually felt as at home outside on the streets of Old Town as I did inside my condo.

I walked east on Eugenie Street, passing a grade school and a row of houses with wide front stairs. I thought about the days after Sam and I started dating when he began to take these walks with me. We spied into living rooms as darkness fell. We talked about how the red living room in that one apartment was too much to deal with every day. We studied the front porch on a house a few doors over and decided that, although it was a touch suburban, it gave a homey feel, and it would be a nice place to sit on summer nights. We planned to install a wall of bookshelves, like the ones we saw in the place on Sedgwick, as soon as we got the chance.

I reached Menomenee Street and walked south, drawn to a spot that held a shiny memory, the place where Sam and I had sat at picnic tables during the Old Town art fair last summer. Right there was where we had talked about getting married for the first time. I remember how his face was a little pink, and I wasn’t sure if it was because of the sun or the topic.

I smiled, lost in the sun of that day, the thrilling nervousness of our conversation, the image of Sam blinking fast in the sunlight, saying how much he loved me, how he was shocked sometimes at how much he loved me. I could feel myself smiling at the thought, not pining to get married, but loving the fact that he wanted to marry me.

I heard a shuffle of feet behind me and the sunlit recollection of Sam disappeared. I jumped, startled. I spun around and saw a shadow stepping into a dim gangway between two tiny little houses.

I gulped. It was probably someone arriving home for the night. But I heard no door opening and closing, no other sounds at all

I shook my head. I would not get paranoid. I might have lost Forester, yes. And I might have to give up a massive wedding deposit at the Chicago History Museum, true. But I would not become paranoid. At least not on a consistent basis.

I stared at the gangway for another second. Still no sounds; no one appeared. Time to go home.

Snap!

I didn’t move, but I let my eyes run wildly. It was just another nice night in Old Town, yet abruptly I felt how truly alone I was, standing on a dead-end street amid homes lit from within but all locked and closed for the night.

I heard something that sounded again like the shuffle of feet. I glanced around, paranoia growing, my heart starting to thump, thump, thump.

Run, a voice in my head said. Get out of here.

I tried to tell myself again not to get paranoid. I tried to simply walk down Menomenee Street like it was any other day. But the shuffle came again, and again I heard my own voice say, Run, Iz.

I took a few fast steps. I could have sworn I heard a soft tap-tap of shoes behind me. I spun around. Nothing. No one.

I turned and walked faster. Again that shuffle sound.

I could feel the pulse in my temples. I could feel a little tremble of anticipation, and I cringed, as if I might be struck from behind.

Once more, I spun around. Still nothing, except that voice, insistent, in my head-Run, you idiot.

This time I listened, not caring what I looked like, not caring if I was being paranoid. I ran home and found myself all alone.

Day Three

Thursday morning, I went down the back stairs of my condo like I always did, desperate for normalcy. I would go to work. I would do my job. I would be grateful for it, and maybe that would help return things to everyday status. Maybe that would somehow return Sam. But at the bottom of the back stairwell, I dreaded having to step outside. My sleep had been spotty, jumpy, haunted by the memory of the tap-tap of shoes behind me.

With trepidation, I stepped outside my building and winced. Chicago had undergone a cold snap.

“Damn.” I gathered the collar of my coat around my neck. The coat-chocolate-brown and thigh-length, with a large belt-was more about fashion than warmth, and I hadn’t yet dug out my scarves or gloves. I looked around but only saw what I saw every morning-some houses still dark, others beaming with light and life as people got ready, a few commuters on the streets, walking to the El train.

I stuffed my hands in my pockets, jingling my Vespa keys as I walked from my graystone building to the detached three-car garage behind it. Maybe it wasn’t as cold as I thought. Maybe I could floor the scooter and ignore the weather.

The garage backed on to the alley, and each unit owned one spot. In the garage sat my neighbor’s cars and my little silver Vespa. I always rode the thing until it was ludicrously cold. During the winter I grudgingly took public transportation or cabs.

I touched the scooter and winced. It felt like a block of ice. Public transit it was.

I was about to close and lock the garage door when my eyes registered something unfamiliar. I glanced to my right, at the wall that faced our building, and noticed that the roller shade that hung over the middle window was open two-thirds of the way. When my neighbors and I had moved in, we decided it would be better to have a dark garage than to leave the windows uncovered and let thieves peruse the merchandise. We installed the blinds and always kept them closed. Always.