“Pretty much what I’d thought. Some sort of stimulant or amphetamine injected into the IV bag.”

“Is that the sort of thing that’s readily available?” asked Emma.

“Sure,” he answered. “Not necessarily at the drugstore, but without too much effort, especially online. For example, there are pills and powders that you can get from dozens of Web sites that contain ephedra. A bunch of people had heart attacks when they were taking it, and it’s been banned by the FDA, but it’s still not hard to come by.”

“What’s it for?” I asked.

“And if it’s so dangerous, why would anyone take it?” added Emma.

“A lot of people use it for weight loss. And athletes take it, too. For weight loss, and to do more-run faster, hit harder-that sort of thing.”

“You know,” I said, remembering, “I think my boss, Stan Winslow, was on something like that last year. He was even more manic than usual but he lost ten pounds. But not without driving everyone crazy in the meantime.”

“It amazes me what people will do to lose weight,” said Matthew.

“That’s easy for you to say. Not everybody has to worry about ordering extra desserts to maintain zero percent body fat,” said Emma.

“Hey, we all have our problems.”

“Matthew,” I asked, “is ephedra the sort of thing that body builders would take?”

“Sure.”

“Excuse me for a minute. I need to make a call.”

Inside was too noisy, so I stepped out onto the front terrace, bracing myself against the bitter chill of the wind. Between the streetlights and the light spilling out from the bar, I could make out the phone number on the card O’Connell had given me earlier that day. I punched in the digits once, but my fingers were stiff from the cold, and the phone slipped from my grasp and clattered on the ice-covered flagstones. I cursed and stooped to retrieve it. Only after I’d turned it off and then on did I get a signal, and I dialed the number again. I’d hoped to get a receptionist or an answering service that could connect me directly to the detective, but instead I got his office voice mail. I left a detailed message, letting him know that he might want to look into the supplements Grant Crocker took as part of his weight-training regimen.

I returned to the Charles shortly after one in the morning, exhausted and uneasy after a tumultuous day. My friends and I had managed to secure a corner table at Shay’s, and we’d talked for a long while about who could be behind the attack on Sara Grenthaler and my suspicions of Grant Crocker, which led to a long and animated discussion of Detective O’Connell, which led in turn to a long and animated discussion of Jonathan Beasley. His good looks were uniformly acknowledged, even by Matthew. We skirted around the topic of Peter, and for that I was grateful.

I checked for messages on my way up to the room, but there was still nothing. It was just as well-I didn’t have the heart to listen to whatever additional excuses and lame apologies Peter might have come up with for his continued absence.

The suite was quiet. A single lamp glowed dimly in a corner of the living room, and a thin trail of light came from the bedroom, likely left on by the housekeeping staff when they’d come to turn down the bed. I hung up my coat and kicked off my shoes. The new attack on Sara and everything that had ensued had given me an excuse to put off thinking about Peter and Abigail on their jewelry-store crawl for a couple of hours, but the still room and its feeling of emptiness now seemed like an overly obvious metaphor for how I was feeling inside.

So, I did what I usually did in such situations and stole a page from Scarlett O’Hara. Tomorrow, I said to myself. I’ll think about it tomorrow. I went into the bedroom, steeling myself for the empty bed and the breakup it foreshadowed.

But Peter was there. Not awake, but not snoring. He lay sprawled on his stomach, a pillow cradled in his arms, his shoulders brown against the white of the duvet.

I probably should have awakened him and had it out, there and then. But I lacked the energy. And part of me wanted one more night as Peter’s girlfriend. I’d liked it, liked how he made me feel, and I didn’t relish the prospect of giving it up, even though I recognized I had to, because either he was going to dump me for Abigail or I was going to dump him before he could dump me.

I sank down onto my side of the bed, and he stirred a bit but didn’t wake up. He just kept breathing, evenly and deeply. There was a note on my pillow, a folded piece of paper. I opened it up and read it by the light of the lamp on the nightstand.

I suck for having missed tonight. It’s just that we’re so close to getting the deal signed up-I’m hoping we’ll have it in the bag by end of day tomorrow. I know I keep saying this, but I’ll make it up to you. Really. XXX, P

At least it wasn’t an e-mail. And, if I hadn’t known about his shopping trip with Abigail it might have done the trick. And if I hadn’t been quasikissing Jonathan Beasley, I would have felt just dandy. In fact, I would probably have tried to coax Peter awake. But it was all too clear that the only reason he was even here was to grab a few hours’ sleep and a change of clothes.

Instead, I undressed, put on an oversize T-shirt, and slipped into bed.

Tired as I was, I did the requisite tossing and turning. There was just too much going on, and none of it good, to possibly sleep. I tried to focus on mentally preparing for the board meeting at Grenthaler Media, but this made me think of the commitment I’d made to Sara, to protect her interests, which inevitably led me back to the attacks. My bet was definitely on Grant Crocker as the perpetrator, and I tried to piece together not only how he had done everything but why. Lessons learned from Lifetime Television for Women could only provide so much insight. Male psychology had never been my area of expertise, I commented to myself. Which, of course, brought me back to Peter, and Abigail, and Jonathan. All in all, I’d had more peaceful nights. I finally drifted off around four but woke up briefly at six, conscious of Peter’s arms around me, warm and familiar. I drifted off again, with a renewed sense of well-being, but when I reawakened at eight he was gone and so was the well-being.

The drapes were open, revealing that the snow hadn’t let up. If anything, it was coming down harder than the previous evening. The thick white flakes swirled outside the window, almost completely obscuring the view to the river. Below me, the park was completely blanketed in white.

I showered and then padded into the living room for my first Diet Coke of the day. Peter had left another note, this one stuck to the door of the minibar. He’d written it in a hurry, judging by his scrawl, but it seemed to say that he was on his way back to the conference and would something indecipherable me later. I called UHS as I popped my soda open. Sara was sleeping but in stable condition, I learned, and yes, there was a police officer stationed outside her door.

I wanted to crawl back into bed, and I definitely looked like I should, but I’d promised too many people that I’d be at the Grenthaler Media emergency board meeting that morning. I surveyed the clothes hanging in the closet with distaste. On a day like today, nobody should have to put on anything but sweatpants or, at the very best, jeans. But here I was, struggling into stockings and the same black suit I’d worn to the memorial service on Thursday and trying to corral my hair into a passable imitation of professional calm.

I was scowling by the time I got into a cab. My mood was rapidly descending from less-than-chipper to downright ornery. Even worse, the driver wanted to chat. About politics.

It was a very long fifteen minutes.