“I sure do.” She paused in her search for her gloves, meeting my gaze. “Grenthaler meant a lot to my husband, and my husband meant the world to me. The stock I inherited will keep his memory alive. For me and for my son.”

“So, you intend to hold on to your shares?”

“More than hold on to them, honey. Those shares represent a family legacy, one that must live on.”

I interpreted that as an indication that she wasn’t interested in selling anytime soon, mitigating the threat of a full-fledged takeover. However, reading between the lines, it seemed like Brian Mulcahey’s concerns about Barbara trying to secure her son the CEO slot were right on the money.

I called Sara’s room on the walk to the business school campus and reported what I’d learned. She sounded drowsy, and I had the feeling I’d awakened her, but I knew she would be reassured by my news.

After we hung up, I checked my Blackberry for messages. Again, there was nothing. Not a single voice or e-mail, and definitely nothing from Peter. I debated for a moment before dialing his number, but it went straight into voice mail anyway. I left a halfhearted reminder about dinner that night. Bitterly, I wondered what excuse he would make for canceling this time.

Then I called Jane’s house. I needed to talk to someone about last night’s quasikiss, the tenuous state of my union with Peter and my current emotional turmoil. Luisa answered the phone.

“Where is everyone?” I asked.

“Hilary’s out doing more research, and Jane and Emma are grocery shopping.”

“You didn’t want to go with them?”

She laughed. “I’m probably the only person who’d be less helpful than you on that sort of outing.”

“Thanks. I guess. So, Jonathan Beasley kissed me last night.”

“Love Story guy?” she asked incredulously.

“Yes. We had dinner. And he kissed me. Well, he quasikissed me. He was aiming for my lips but I turned my head.”

“Did you kiss him back?”

“No, of course not. I mean, I have a boyfriend, at least in theory. I totally spazzed.”

“I’m confused. Where was Peter? Weren’t you supposed to have dinner with Peter?”

“Yes. But he canceled. He didn’t even call. He just sent an e-mail. And he was out half the night. With Abigail, I’m sure. I think he’s dumping me,” I confided. This was the first time I’d said the words aloud, and they left an acrid taste on my tongue.

“What time are you getting here?” she asked. “We need to talk about this.”

“By seven, I hope.”

“Good.” I was nearly at the door to Morgan Hall. “I’ve got to go, but I’ll see you in a few hours. Oh-I nearly forgot to ask. How was your trip to Newbury Street yesterday? Any good purchases?”

Luisa hesitated on the other end of the phone. “It was all right. I’ll tell you about it later.”

I made my way up to Jonathan’s office. His door was open, and he was seated behind his desk. I knocked on the doorframe, and he looked up and gave me a big smile. My heart did a traitorous flip-flop and the now-familiar tingling began afresh. He really was just absurdly cute.

“Hi,” I said. “I’m here for my police interrogation.”

“Great,” he said. He stood up and helped me off with my coat. “They’re finishing up with somebody else right now. I’ve got them parked in a conference room down the hall. It should only be a couple of minutes.”

“Any news?”

“Well, I’ve found out why they think that there might be a link with the prostitute killer.”

“What’s that?”

“You’re not going to believe this. Apparently they think that the guy who’s been doing the murders has been using a scarf to strangle his victims.”

“A scarf?”

“Not just any scarf.” He closed his office door to hang my coat up next to his and gestured to the scarf that hung on one of the pegs. “This scarf.”

“I don’t get it. They think the killer’s been using your scarf?”

He laughed. “Well, maybe not this one. But a Harvard scarf.” I looked at the crimson-and-white-striped object in question. “And the witness to the attack on Sara said the guy was wearing one, too.”

“But those are everywhere.” Just in the past twenty-four hours I must have seen more than a dozen people wearing them. Jonathan himself, Gabrielle LeFavre, the annoying guy who tried to psyche me out in the elevator the previous day, Scott Epson, Grant Crocker-why even Adam Barnett had been wearing one, and he’d gone to M.I.T. Personally, I’d never understood the appeal of decking oneself out in Harvard paraphernalia, but I seemed to be in the minority on that topic.

Jonathan shrugged. “I don’t disagree. But they seem to think that it might be too much of a coincidence that they have a strangler using one to strangle people while somebody’s attacking a student wearing another.”

“That sounds like a flimsy link to me,” I said.

“I know. But they’re also desperate to catch this sociopath who’s been on a killing spree, and they’re following up on any lead, no matter how tenuous. I’m just worried that it will take them off on the wrong tangent, and they won’t catch the guy who attacked Sara. I mean, I want them to catch them both, but it seems like they’re jumping to conclusions to think it’s the same person.”

“It seems that way,” I agreed.

But I was getting distracted. We were still by the closed door, looking at the scarf hanging from its hook. And Jonathan was standing pretty close. He took a deep breath, and the way he paused reminded me of the way he’d paused the previous night. As if he were making up his mind about something. The last time he’d made a similar decision, it had been to try to kiss me. And I wasn’t all that confident that I didn’t want him to try again.

So I did what any normal person would do, and started talking about the weather. “Is there really supposed to be a blizzard this week-”

But it was hard to keep talking when his lips were descending toward mine.

F ortunately, or unfortunately, depending on one’s perspective, there was a knock at the door. We sprang apart in an unconscious parody of guilty lovers caught in the act, even though there had been no act, and Jonathan opened the door. It was his assistant, letting him know that the police were ready to speak to Ms. Benjamin. I followed her down the corridor on slightly unsteady legs. I could feel Jonathan’s eyes on my back, and I willed myself-successfully, for once-not to trip.

I was ushered into a small conference room with windows looking out on Baker Library. Two plain-clothed detectives stood to greet me. One introduced himself as Officer Stanley, a rather nondescript man in his twenties who seemed to be the more junior of the pair. The other was Detective O’Connell.

I did a double take when I saw him. It wasn’t just the name, which was nearly identical to that of a certain Detective O’Donnell I’d met the last time I’d had a police interview, when I’d had the good luck to find the murdered body of Emma’s former fiancé. It was more that Detective O’Connell could have been Detective O’Donnell’s twin. Six foot plus, thick dark hair with a smattering of gray-blue eyes that pierced, and chiseled features. He looked more like a GQ model than a police officer, despite the suit that was definitely not Zegna. Hilary had done her admirable best to make a play for O’Donnell, but he’d been immune to her considerable charms. I immediately started trying to figure out how I could arrange for her to meet O’Connell, happily noting the absence of a wedding ring on his finger. It would be a welcome distraction from trying to sort out my own love life.

They offered me a chair at the conference table, and when we were all seated they went through the formalities with which I’d familiarized myself during my last police interview. Actually, O’Connell went through the formalities. Officer Stanley didn’t say a word after introducing himself but silently took notes as I told them my name, address and sundry other background details. Then I explained to them how I knew Sara.