Besides, I would have lost my mind, as well as any ability to fit into my clothes, if I’d stayed cooped up in Emma’s apartment any longer.

When he wasn’t lunching with me at Burger Heaven, Jake favored a Halal vendor on the corner of East 52nd Street and Park Avenue. “You definitely can’t get falafel like that in Chicago,” he had said. I had never tried to get falafel in Chicago, but I agreed anyhow and regularly let him pick some up for me when he ventured out. I’d even trained him to ask for the appropriate amount of hot sauce, which in my case was more than anyone else found appropriate, even the vendor with his presumably spice-tempered palate.

By noon, I was perched on the wall bordering one of the fountains in front of the Seagram’s building, about thirty feet from the vendor’s cart. The food smelled good, but I was still too queasy from my salt-and-vinegared breakfast to think about lunch. I’d picked up a newspaper, and I scanned it while I waited, hopefully, for Jake to show up. Gallagher’s murder and the attack on Dahlia were commanding prominent coverage, but while the articles referenced a missing red-haired suspect, I was relieved to see that neither my name nor photograph had been made public.

I was starting to doubt the wisdom of my plan, and I was also getting cold, when I spotted Jake coming from the direction of the Winslow, Brown offices, on the other side of Park. My distance vision wasn’t necessarily my strongest asset, but the tilt of his blond head and his gait were distinctive. I put down my paper and rose to meet him, but instead of crossing the street he turned and headed north.

I followed him up Park Avenue. He was walking quickly, and with his long legs, I nearly had to run to keep up. I didn’t want to draw attention to myself by actually running, much less by calling out his name. I was a block south of him and still on the wrong side of the street when a serendipitous red light afforded me the opportunity to cross to his side. I’d made it to the island in the middle when I realized Jake, too, was crossing the street, but to the side I’d just come from and a block up. I managed to backtrack before the light could turn green, but by the time I was heading north again he’d disappeared around the corner of 57th Street, heading east.

Where was he going? The only location of interest in that direction was Bloomingdale’s, and Jake had always struck me as more of a Brooks Brothers type of guy. Throwing caution to the wind, I upped my pace to a jog, praying that my wig was anchored securely enough not to fly off and taking care not to make eye contact with anyone I passed.

When I turned the corner at 57th Street, I was rewarded with a glimpse of Jake entering a doorway at the far end of the block. I slowed my pace back down to a walk. I knew that doorway-it was to a Starbucks. I didn’t see why Jake would go to a Starbucks on 57th Street when one had conveniently colonized the lobby of the building that housed Winslow, Brown’s headquarters, but maybe he’d wanted the fresh air and the brisk walk.

I checked my reflection in a shop window and assured myself that my wig was still in place before I followed him inside, confident that I remained incognito. After the bright sunlight of the day, it took a moment for my eyes to adjust to the dim interior, made all the more dim by my sunglasses, and at first I wondered if I’d mistaken Jake for someone else entering the store.

But then I saw him.

He was sitting in a corner, in close conversation with a woman whose sunglasses were as large as my own.

But even with the sunglasses I recognized Annabel Gallagher.

I preferred my caffeine cold and carbonated, but Starbucks didn’t sell Diet Coke, which seemed inhospitable, at best. I grudgingly ordered a frappuccino, and since the walk up Park counted as exercise, I also asked for an M &M cookie. I was becoming progressively more aware that the only barrier previously standing between me and substantial weight gain had been that I was usually too busy to fit every meal in. The surprisingly leisurely pace of fugitive life was giving me ample time for empty calories. I could only hope that all of the adrenaline boosted my metabolism, because I definitely lacked willpower.

My newspaper provided cover while I ate my oversize cookie and maintained a surreptitious watch on Jake and Annabel from a table on the opposite side of the store. Their discussion appeared animated. At least, she appeared animated in an upset sort of way, and he appeared animated in a reassuring sort of way. At one point he reached across the table and put his hand over hers.

From a distance, and with my sunglasses still on, it was hard to interpret the gesture. Was it that of a friend comforting a friend who’d just lost her husband? Or was there more to it, something more intimate? And even if there weren’t more to it, how had Jake and Annabel become friends in the first place? And if they were such good friends, why hadn’t they acknowledged each other on Monday, when we passed her on the way out to lunch? In fact, why hadn’t Jake mentioned that he knew her when we were dissecting the likely terms of her prenup the day before?

Maybe it had been premature to write off my crush as entirely harmless. Maybe Peter had been right, and my feelings had gotten in the way of my judgment, and Jake’s piece in this puzzle was more complex than I’d thought. It was becoming increasingly clear that I was completely lacking in emotional intelligence. Peter would be better off without me.

After about fifteen minutes and just as I was wondering if I could risk drawing attention to myself by getting up to purchase another cookie, Annabel stood. Monday’s multi-brand ensemble had given way to head-to-toe black Chanel. She gathered up a trademark quilted handbag and let Jake help her on with a coat that had probably been made from an endangered species in a remote Asian village. I watched expectantly. Would they kiss? Hug? Shake hands?

But they did none of those things. Instead they continued talking for another few minutes. Then Annabel left-there was no kissing, hugging, or hand-shaking-and Jake returned to his seat. He pulled his BlackBerry from his pocket and began pecking out a message.

He looked up as I slid into the chair Annabel had vacated.

“I’m sorry, but-”

“Jake, it’s me.”

His blue eyes widened. “Rachel?”

“Got it in one.”

He leaned back. A slow grin crossed his face. “Interesting look.”

“Yes, well, I heard blondes have more fun.”

“How’s that working out for you?”

“It’s too soon to tell.”

“You just missed Annabel Gallagher,” he said. His tone was easy.

“Actually, I didn’t miss her at all. I was sitting over on the other side and saw the entire thing. I didn’t realize you two knew each other.” My own tone, in contrast, held more than a note of suspicion.

He didn’t seem to pick up on it. “I’ve known Annabel for years. Believe it or not, I introduced her to Gallagher. We dated for a bit when I was working at Ryan Brothers. I brought her to a few work events, and that’s when they met.”

“Wait. Are you telling me Annabel dumped you for Gallagher?” I asked, astonished.

He shifted in his seat. “Well, dumped is sort of a strong word for it.”

“It sounds like a dumping.” I knew I was being blunt, but I was annoyed that Jake hadn’t seen fit to share this before. Rethinking whether or not I could trust him really hadn’t been part of today’s game plan.

“Annabel and I were seeing each other, but it was still pretty casual, and then she met Gallagher and decided he was the one for her.”

“So she did dump you for him.” I said.

“It wasn’t really a dumping.”

“Well, I don’t know how they define dumping in Chicago, but where I come from we call that dumping.”