“I can trust him,” I said.

“Did you know that he worked at Gallagher’s old firm?” Peter asked. “Did he tell you that?”

“Of course I knew.”

“And you don’t think there’s a chance he could be in on any of this? You think it’s just a coincidence?”

“You’re being absurd. Jake joined Winslow, Brown way before Gallagher came over from Ryan Brothers. And if Jake was in on anything with Gallagher-and by the way, we still don’t know if there’s anything to be in on in the first place-Gallagher sure had a strange way of showing it. He was nearly as much of a jerk to him as he was to m-to anyone.”

“Maybe. But I’m worried that you’re not being as careful as you should be. That you’re letting your feelings get in the way.”

“What feelings?”

“Are you going to make me say this, too?”

I looked at him but didn’t say anything. There was a long moment of silence.

Then he turned away from me. “Your feelings for Jake,” he said.

Something inside of me switched off and something else switched on. It was as if I’d been waiting for a reason-any reason-to blow up at Peter, and he’d just handed it to me. When I spoke again, I felt like I was on autopilot or having an out-of-body experience. On some level I fully recognized that I was lashing out at the wrong person, but I couldn’t help it.

“Jake is my colleague and my friend, Peter. Nothing more.” My autopilot voice was cold. I stood up and began gathering my things. “And I can take care of myself. I’ve been doing it for a long time. Since before I met you and since before you moved in.”

“Rachel, I was-I am concerned. I’m only trying to help.”

“By accusing me of being involved with other men?”

“I wasn’t accusing you of being involved-”

“And completely invading my privacy?”

He took a step back. “How was I invading your privacy?”

“Investigating my colleagues. Spying on my caller ID.”

“Spying on your caller ID?”

“What would you call it?”

“First of all, I couldn’t help but see the caller ID when I went to use the phone. And second of all, it happens to be my caller ID, too.”

“How is it your caller ID?”

“I live here. Remember?”

“How can I forget?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” he asked, following me as I crossed the living room.

“It means I gargled with your aftershave yesterday. Your stuff is everywhere.”

“That’s because you don’t have a spare second to help me figure out where I can put everything.”

“I’ve been working,” I said, shoving my arms into my coat sleeves.

“It’s not just about finding a place for my stuff, Rachel, or about giving me a set of keys.”

“Now, what’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means that it’s about finding a place for me.” He took a deep breath. “Do you even want me here? And I don’t just mean in this apartment or in this city.”

“Are you saying you don’t want to be here?”

“No-”

“You want things to go back to the way they were?”

“No-”

I tore his ring off my finger and threw it down on the hall table. “Because that can be arranged, Peter.”

“Rachel-”

“And now I’m really behind schedule. We’ll have to talk about this later.”

He caught my arm. “Rachel,” he said again.

I pulled my arm away. “I don’t have time for this. We’ll talk about it later,” I repeated.

And then I slammed the door.

I was off autopilot and completely appalled with myself by the time I hit the street.

My friends had been right. I was scared. The fear was so tangible I could practically taste it. And it was safer to feel angry than to feel vulnerable.

So I’d just picked a fight-a really big, potentially irreparable, and wholly unjustified fight-with my fiancé. I’d been horrible to him, all because our relationship and everything that came with it terrified me. Something inside me seemed determined to torpedo the entire thing, to preserve my single but stable independence rather than take the risk that things with Peter might not work out.

And unless I figured out a way to stop being scared, any attempt to patch things up with Peter would be nothing more than a temporary fix.

But I didn’t know how to stop being scared. And I definitely didn’t have time for extended psychotherapy, however much I might need it.

So I did what I usually did when I didn’t want to deal with uncomfortable emotions: I turned my thoughts to work and the day ahead. This would probably be hard for most people to do in a similar situation, but I’d had a lot of practice being dysfunctional.

There was no good way to get to the office when I left this late. The subway would be a crowded nightmare, it was still too cold and slushy to go by foot, and the odds of finding a taxi in my neighborhood at this time of the morning were pretty much nil. I spent the two-block walk to the subway entrance at 77th Street and Lexington scanning the streets for an unoccupied cab. But when one didn’t appear, I descended reluctantly down to the turnstiles for the 6 train.

I just missed a train leaving the station, which could only be expected given how my day was going so far. I joined the other commuters on the platform to wait for the next train to arrive. While people were generally relatively civilized on the subway, there seemed to be something in the air today, an unusual tension as people jockeyed for position. Rush hour always made me nervous-you had to be careful that an inadvertent shove didn’t send you flying into the path of an oncoming train. I just hoped nobody shoved me, because I didn’t trust myself not to shove back on this particular morning.

I should have called in sick, I thought to myself. I never did, even when I actually was sick. I’d earned more than an extra hour’s sleep-I’d earned a good sick day, what with never calling in sick and working late and on weekends and then having to watch people die hideous pencil-induced deaths. I briefly fantasized about going home, changing into pajamas, and catching up on my TiVo backlog. Of course, all of this assumed that the wreckage of a relationship wouldn’t be waiting for me in the apartment. I stayed where I was.

Ten minutes elapsed before the next train pulled in, and while it looked packed to capacity, the crowd at my back propelled me through the doors. I found myself in the middle of the car, unable to reach a pole or overhead grip, but it didn’t matter, as the people smushed up against me made it impossible to move in any direction, much less lose my balance. I shut my eyes-I didn’t want to be able to identify what might be pressing into me from every side.

It took only five or six minutes to get to the 51st Street stop, but it took me nearly as long again to emerge from the station, which served not only the 6 train but other lines from the various New York boroughs. By the disgruntled looks on the faces I passed and the Metropolitan Transit officials hurrying about, funneling people along, I guessed that maybe one of the lines was out of service, further exacerbating the everyday gridlock of the morning commute. Up on the street, I trudged the remaining blocks to my office, skirting piles of soot-darkened snow and murky puddles as best I could and wondering again why I hadn’t called in sick.

A half hour later, I was really wishing I had.

The floor was strangely deserted when I arrived. I checked my watch-it was well after nine, and the place should be humming with activity. Instead it was eerily quiet.

I started toward my office, but then I saw that all of the people who weren’t out on the floor were gathered in one of the glass-walled conference rooms. Had somebody called an impromptu staff meeting? Perhaps to discuss Gallagher’s murder? Why was it that the one day in the last year when I wasn’t the first to arrive in the office would be the one day that the partners decided it was time for an impromptu all-department chat?