“As you know,” began O’Connell, “we’re investigating the attack on Ms. Grenthaler yesterday morning, and Professor Beasley mentioned that you had dinner with her the night before.”

“Yes. Sara and I are friends, but there was also some company business that she wanted to discuss.” I briefly set out her concern about the movements in Grenthaler’s stock price, and I also filled them in on what I’d learned yesterday. “If anything did happen to Sara, her grandparents would inherit her shares, and a takeover would require that either they or the Barnetts were willing to sell. Or, more accurately, Barbara Barnett. Tom Barnett passed away last week. To-” I hesitated, unsure how to word what I was going to say. “To incapacitate Sara wouldn’t really accomplish much. So, I really doubt that there’s a connection. Still, Jonath-Professor Beasley thought you should know.”

“We appreciate that,” said O’Connell, but he seemed vaguely disappointed. It occurred to me that Jonathan may have set his expectations for the importance of what I had to say a little high. “Can I ask you to keep us in the loop should there be any changes in the situation?” He passed me his card. I had the sense that he did so more out of habit than because he was interested.

“Sure,” I agreed, tucking it into my shoulder bag. They seemed ready to conclude the interview, but I was too curious not to use this opportunity to find out what little I could. “Professor Beasley said that you thought there might be a tie between the attack on Sara and the person who’s been murdering prostitutes.”

“We’re looking into it,” acknowledged O’Connell. “We have reason to believe that the killer might be part of the Harvard community in some way. And the witness to the attack on Ms. Grenthaler said that her attacker had been wearing a Harvard scarf.”

“But a million people must have those scarves,” I pointed out, just as I had pointed out to Jonathan a half hour ago.

“True, but we don’t have a lot to go on, either in the killings or in the attack on Ms. Grenthaler.” He maintained the same courteous tone but his face betrayed a hint of either impatience or frustration.

“Have you found out anything about the person who’s been writing the letters to Sara?”

He shook his head. “We’re having the letters analyzed by a profiler. Taken at face value, they don’t seem to be threatening, but given what’s happened, they can’t be ignored, either. Anyhow, thank you for your time. We appreciate your coming by today, and please call us if anything else comes to mind.”

Now he definitely looked impatient. I’d been dismissed, professionally and politely, but dismissed nonetheless. I wasn’t thinking quickly enough on my feet; the interview had concluded without me finding a way to introduce O’Connell to Hilary. If anything, I might have even annoyed him. And the only reason I had to call him was if something untoward happened with Grenthaler Media, which was the last thing I wanted.

I sighed as I left the conference room. I was the first person to recognize that the only reason I was thinking about Hilary’s love life right now was to try to distract myself from the unpleasant fact that I’d come dangerously close to crossing the thin line between harmless flirtation and cheating. Although, did it count as cheating when you suspected you were being broken up with but just hadn’t yet endured the actual break-up discussion? Regardless, I had to say something to Jonathan before things went any further.

Part of me was hoping to depart without seeing Jonathan again, to avoid having to come clean, at least for a while. But the eighteen-year-old part of me was rearing for another encounter. And that part won out, because I’d left my coat in his office. Either way, Jonathan seemed to have been waiting for me to emerge from my meeting with the police, because he rose to his feet as soon as I entered the room.

“Hey. How did it go?”

“Fine,” I said. “But it’s still hard to believe that there might be any relationship between what’s going on at Grenthaler Media and this whole thing. They didn’t seem to think so, either.”

“Where are you off to now?” he asked.

“Back to the Charles. My firm’s hosting a cocktail party for the candidates we’re asking down to New York.”

“I’ll walk you over there,” he volunteered. “I have a couple of errands to do in the Square. And I was going to stop by UHS to see Sara.”

Inside my head, eighteen-year-old Rachel jumped up and down, while the more mature Rachel tried to figure out how she was going to set the record straight with Jonathan before she descended yet further into a quasiadulterous quagmire.

“Great,” I said. It was unclear which Rachel was currently speaking for me.

He helped me into my coat and donned his own. I noticed that his shirt cuff was monogrammed-JEB. If we got married, I thought, and I changed my name, I wouldn’t have to change any of my own monograms. Not that I’d ever been much of a monogrammer, per se. And Rachel Beasley sounded silly. Perhaps I could hyphenate? But Rachel Benjamin-Beasley sounded even sillier. I kept my mind focused on such thoughts, in order not to think about how nice and broad Jonathan’s shoulders were under his coat, and how his lips might have felt if they’d actually connected with mine, and how I was going to use the ten-minute walk to the hotel to let him know about my phantom boyfriend.

The phone rang just as we were leaving Jonathan’s office, and he apologized but excused himself to pick it up. I used the time to extract my Blackberry from my bag and check again for messages. With a mixture of relief and foreboding, I saw that there was an e-mail from Peter, which I took as an omen. He was making his presence felt, and there was no moral way I couldn’t tell Jonathan about his presence.

But when I opened his message my resolve disappeared.

You’re going to kill me, but we’re still trying to get this client signed up. Abigail thinks we’re going to need to do some serious wining and dining if we’re going to ward off Smitty Hamilton, and I have to agree. It looks like I’m going to miss the big dinner at Jane’s. I’ll try to get there after we’re done if it’s not too late. I’ll make it up to you-I promise!! PF

Humph. Not even a “love” or an “XO” at the end. And once again, he’d chickened out, choosing e-mail rather than a phone call. And could he really need to be spending so much time signing up this client? That’s what he said he’d been doing the previous night, and if the snoring were any indication, he’d put in a pretty serious effort.

Maybe, said the mean little voice (which I was beginning to think might be in cahoots with my eighteen-year-old voice), he just wants to spend more time with Abigail. Maybe this client stuff is all about trying to let you down easy. Maybe he’s doing the wussy-boy thing, by being so unavailable and busy that you’re left with no choice but to break up with him simply out of pride. Leaving him free to do what he really wants. Leaving him free to be with Abigail.

I tried to silence the mean little voice, but it was hard, especially when Jonathan hung up the phone and gave me the sort of smile that was guaranteed to quiet all of the various insecurities the mean little voice seemed to represent. As if I were the most beautiful, fascinating creature he’d ever met. And as if he would never toss me over to spend time with the gazellelike Abigail.

“Sorry about that. Ready to go?”

“Sure.”

Jonathan chatted on about the police investigation as the elevator descended to the ground floor. Outside of Morgan Hall, the late-afternoon air felt like it came directly from the North Pole. A scattering of lazy snowflakes drifted down, but the sky above was dark with the threat of more. A gust of wind hit us as we reached the river, nearly knocking me off my feet. Jonathan put his hand on my shoulder to steady me, and he kept it there as we crossed over the bridge.