“What happened?” I asked, a little too eagerly. Then I apologized. “I’m sorry. That’s none of my business.”

He shrugged. “No, it’s okay. It’s hard to explain, really. Ange earned her master’s in social work after college, and she got pretty wrapped up in it. She was always off at a homeless shelter, or trying to rehabilitate addicts or get prostitutes off the street. And I was wrapped up in my work, too. We just sort of grew apart. Isn’t that what they always say?”

“I think so. But I guess it still happens.”

“So we split up. It was fairly amicable. She got the house in Cambridge, and I moved into a condo in Kendall Square.”

Our conversation eventually turned to Sara and the police investigation. According to Jonathan, the police still seemed concerned that there was a link between the attack and the prostitute killer.

“He’s been awfully busy, then,” I pointed out. “I just saw a headline in the evening paper about another murder. Did you find out more about why they think there’s a connection? There’s a big difference between a student getting hit on the head and prostitutes being strangled.”

“I know. I’m hoping to get more detail tomorrow.”

“What’s going on with the crime rate around here, anyhow?” I asked.

“ Boston may not be New York, but it is a big city and it has all of the problems of any big city. There are a lot of lowlifes around getting into all sorts of trouble.”

The word lowlife made me think of the Creepy Violent Stalker. “What did the police say about the letters she was getting?”

“The love letters? They’re looking them over, but they didn’t seem too excited.”

“Really? They don’t think there’s a stalker angle to this?”

“I don’t know.” He shrugged again. “As I said before, the letters looked pretty harmless to me.”

“But you never know.”

“Of course not,” he answered. “Still, there are a lot of other paths to explore.”

“Besides the stalker?”

“I don’t know if I’d call him a stalker. Probably just an anonymous admirer.”

“I hope that’s true. So, what’s your theory?”

“Well, I don’t have one, really, but I’ve been thinking. Much as Sara keeps a pretty low profile, she’s high profile by definition. I mean she’s smart, she’s beautiful and she’s an heiress. I could imagine that a lot of people would be jealous of her.”

“What do you mean?” I asked, although his words instantly brought to mind my chat that afternoon with Gabrielle LeFavre.

“I’m not sure if I know. But let’s say you’re somebody who doesn’t have all of the things that Sara has but has worked really hard to get to business school. You’d probably be pretty jealous.” Gabrielle sure was, I thought.

“Sara’s worked hard,” I pointed out. “She definitely pulled more than her fair share of all-nighters when she interned at my firm last summer.”

“Sure. And I’ve seen her in class, and she’s always well prepared. But there are still people who would envy who she is and what she has. She’s going to be CEO of a major company, sooner rather than later, and while we recognize that the path that’s gotten her there hasn’t necessarily been the smoothest, some people might not be so sympathetic. And HBS is an incredibly competitive and stressful place-people lose perspective.”

Gabrielle definitely appeared to have lost perspective. That that sort of envy could trigger an attack seemed even more far-fetched now that I’d had two beers and a healthy portion of curry in me than it had that afternoon, but it was interesting to hear Jonathan put forth a similar theory. “So, you think Sara could be a symbol of some sort to an unhinged underdog type?”

“I know, it’s crazy. But you know what it’s like on campus.”

“Yes. Especially during Hell Week.”

“Anyhow, that’s what I’ve been wondering about. It’s probably stupid-I’m a professor, not a detective,” he said with a self-deprecating smile. “So, what about you? Do you have any ideas?”

I washed down an especially fiery bite of vindaloo with a sip of beer. “Aside from the letter-writing stalker?”

“I doubt he’s a stalker.”

“No,” I admitted, “I’m fresh out of ideas. Frankly, I’m more worried about Sara’s company.”

“Grenthaler Media?”

“Yes. There have been some weird things going on with the stock.” I gave Jonathan a brief summary of the conversation I’d had with Sara on Wednesday night and the research I’d done that afternoon.

“I don’t know what it’s all about, and it’s probably nothing,” I concluded, “but I’m trying to gather some more information.”

“I think you should tell the police what you just told me.”

“Really? Why?”

“It just seems like a strange confluence of events. Somebody might be trying to take over the company of which Sara is the largest shareholder, and meanwhile she’s been assaulted.”

“You can’t really think the two things are connected?”

“Probably not any more than the attack being connected with the serial killer. But you never know.”

I thought about what he’d said. Had I been so busy trying to blame a Creepy Violent Stalker or a Psycho Roommate that I’d missed something important? It seemed to be taking far-fetched to a whole new level, but it couldn’t hurt to make sure that the authorities charged with investigating the attack were aware of all the facts. Although, I was still hoping that my fears of a potential takeover attempt were unwarranted. I said as much to Jonathan.

“I’m sure you’re right, but the police will probably appreciate being filled in. I’ll arrange for you to talk to them tomorrow, if that works for you.”

“That’s fine,” I agreed.

We lingered over dinner. Jonathan asked me a lot about myself, and he listened intently. At some point, his cell phone rang, but rather than taking the call he switched off his phone. I found this sort of undivided attention flattering, particularly when my putative boyfriend’s attention had been so thoroughly divided of late. And the flattery had the logical effect of making me feel glowing and attractive, which also went nicely with the tingling. I hadn’t realized how in need of an ego boost I was. Still, I resolved, I would tell Jonathan about Peter before the evening was over. I just had to find the right moment.

Jonathan insisted on paying for dinner and driving me back to the hotel. He’d parked on a side street near the restaurant, and he took my arm to help me pick my way through the slush and patches of ice on the sidewalk. He unlocked the passenger-side door of his old Saab, a car I’d always thought personified New England academia. He closed the door after me, and I watched him walk around to the driver’s side. In his tweed jacket, with a crimson-and-white striped Harvard scarf wrapped around his neck, he was almost a cliché. But a very attractive one.

He took Mass. Ave. toward Harvard Square, neatly skirting the potholes that pocked the road. We spent the drive lamenting the demise of favorite old haunts. The Bow and Arrow, which had once been a fabulous dive bar complete with outdated pinball machines, was now a restaurant and Tommy’s Lunch had metamorphosed into Tommy’s House of Pizza. We laughed over the famous rumor about Ted Kennedy running into his professor while having a roast beef sandwich at Elsie’s, another long-gone landmark. Unfortunately, Kennedy was supposed to be taking an exam in that professor’s course when they ran into each other, and he had found someone to take the exam on his behalf. His professor was not amused. Or so the story went.

Jonathan pulled into the circle in front of the Charles and put the car into park. And I suddenly felt very, very awkward. Peter was probably upstairs, waiting for me, and I’d just had a very nice dinner with another, very handsome man. There was no escaping it. The time had come to tell Jonathan that there was a Peter in the picture. I couldn’t wait anymore for just the right moment to assert itself-the evening had all but run out of moments.