One of the neighbors could have just left the blind open, I thought. But then again, I’d been the last one in the garage yesterday night and that blind was closed. Neither of my neighbors appeared to have been in there yet today.

I walked to the window and went to pull the blind when I noticed that although a thin layer of dust coated the windowsill, a square imprint was clearly visible, as if someone had set something there. I swiped my finger over the square shape. It was smooth and clear of dust. Whoever had set something on the sill, marring the dust, had done so recently.

I peered through the window. The back of my building was visible, including the windows that looked out from each unit’s kitchen and bedrooms. I stared up at my condo. When I’d finally reached home last night after my walk-or should I say my run?-I’d paced from kitchen to bedroom and back again, in front of those windows.

I looked at the windowsill again and heard Detective Schneider’s words-Be careful…Who knows what he’ll do? But was this anything to be concerned about? What exactly would I say-I’ve noticed a disturbing shift of dust in my grubby garage? I didn’t see anyone, but I might have heard someone walking behind me in a city that has more than 2.8 million people?

Just then, I had the feeling of being, somehow, not alone. I spun around. The garage was the same as before-two cars, my silver scooter.

I yanked the shade down tight, pulled my collar tighter and left the garage, triple-checking the lock. I walked to the Sedgwick El platform. I got on the next train, stuffing myself inside with the rest of the crowd headed to the Loop. Everyone wore distant gazes or fiddled with their iPods, trying for the last few moments of personal time before beginning a bustling day.

I got out at Washington, walked to Madison and then west a few blocks until I reached the office. The whole time, I kept glancing over my shoulder.

Q was already at his desk. “Sleep?”

“Not much. You?”

He shook his head. “I’ve been here since six-thirty. I thought I might as well get some things done. Your brother called. Also, there was a message left last night from Shane’s secretary. The funeral is tomorrow at noon. Up in Lake Forest.”

He handed me a slip with the address of the church where the funeral would be held.

I felt like putting my head on the little wall surrounding Q’s desk and having a good cry. Instead, I managed to keep a bland look on my face and nodded. “How are you?”

“Fine, fine.”

“Why doesn’t that sound genuine?”

He shrugged. “It’s just-” he looked around “-everything. You know?”

I glanced around, smiling a tight grin at the assistants who were making no attempt to hide the fact that they were staring at us. “Right. Well, I’m going to…” I pointed at my office.

Q nodded and looked back at his screen. I stood a moment longer, looking at him. Something was different, but I couldn’t put my finger on it.

“What?” he said, looking up at me, feeling my gaze.

“Nothing. Nothing.” I finally turned and headed to my office.

I made some calls to a distribution company that wanted to buy the rights to a TV movie made by one of Forester’s companies. I halfheartedly argued with the distributor’s attorney about whether the company’s rights should end on the expiration of term or whether they should have the ability to purchase the rights again at that time.

Contract negotiations were all about give-and-take. They were all about making the other side feel appreciated and heard, and then making them realize that while they’d given a little, they’d gotten a heck of a lot more.

But I couldn’t give anything. I kept thinking about Sam’s e-mail account. I kept thinking that I knew more than a few of his passwords.

“I’ve got to call you back,” I said, interrupting the attorney on the phone.

I hung up and found the Web site for United Airlines. I put in Sam’s frequent-flier number and then his password.

Hello, Sam, the screen read.

“Hello, Sam,” I murmured. “Tell me where you went.”

I clicked on My Itineraries. I held my breath while the screen shifted.

I blew out in a long, steady stream when I saw what was there-one itinerary.

Our honeymoon.

In a month and a half, the day after our wedding, we were supposed to be boarding a flight to Madrid and then changing planes to fly to Málaga, Spain.

I sat back, again resisting the urge to cry. Why had I taken the wedding, the honeymoon, for granted?

I swung my chair around and stared out my window, then swung it back just as fast. It dawned on me that if I knew Sam’s passwords for his e-mail and the airline, wasn’t it possible he used similar ones for other sites? Like his credit card?

But an hour later, all I’d learned was that Sam hadn’t used his credit card since buying lunch at Custom House restaurant on the day he disappeared. And there was nothing interesting in the purchases he’d made in the previous month or two-no airline tickets on other airlines, no hotel bookings, nothing other than the usual stuff I knew he bought, like protein bars from the health-food store on North Avenue and socks from Bloomingdale’s.

My nerves about my upcoming meeting with the FBI started to grow. And grow and grow.

Then I had an idea.

“I’m out,” I said to Q, leaving my office.

“Where to?”

“I have a meeting.”

I left the Baltimore & Brown offices and walked to LaSalle Street. Again, I felt the weight of someone’s eyes on me, but every time I spun around, no one seemed to be watching me.

I went north toward the Board of Trade until I came to an old high rise that housed a bevy of criminal-defense firms. The lobby inside used to be grand, but now the marble was yellowed and the lighting patchy. On the tenth floor, the firm of Martin Bristol & Associates wasn’t much better. God knew they made enough dough to have a sleek office overlooking the Chicago River, but like many criminal-defense firms they didn’t care about image. They only cared about the work and the clients. And, of course, the cash.

“Hey, Izzy,” the receptionist called when I walked in. I waved. She hit a buzzer under the desk that unlatched the door to the internal offices and went back to her phone call.

The hallway was lined with courtroom sketches, mostly of Martin Bristol, Maggie’s grandfather, prowling the courtrooms in his many cases. He’d been an assistant state’s attorney for years and had prosecuted the infamous serial killer Keith Lee Baker. It was a case that continued to define him, even now, and he’d told me he was just fine with that. Keith Lee Baker, he always said, had brought him a hell of a lot of business.

Maggie’s office had typical overworked lawyer written all over it. The windows that faced LaSalle Street were mostly blocked with stacks of redwell folders bearing the names of various cases. Her desk was littered with motions and complaints and witness statements.

Maggie was seated in the black leather chair she’d inherited from her grandfather’s old associate, who’d left years ago. The chair was faded and torn in spots, and I knew she’d been meaning to get a new one since she’d started practicing here after law school but, like many criminal lawyers, Maggie was superstitious. She’d somehow convinced herself that the chair was good luck, and now she couldn’t get rid of it.

“Mags,” I said.

She looked up, shocked. She always looked like that when someone came into her office, as if she didn’t know that other people, like clients and friends, might visit her. She was always completely consumed in what she was doing.

She blinked once, and I could see her brain clearing off a clean space. She batted away a lock of honey-colored hair that had fallen in her eye.