Alex raised an eyebrow. "Any ideas?" he said.

"It would have to be a person with ties to Vicky, and I have no clue who that could be. Perhaps someone who once worked on her show. Or hopes to in the future."

"Okay, that'll be my next a.s.signment: to suss out if anyone on our show used to be in her camp."

"Speaking of the show, can you believe I've never heard from Tom?"

"There's something weird going on with that dude. He's oddly detached these days."

"He hasn't figured out you're collaborating with me, has he?"

"I'm sure no one has a hint of that. Except for helping Maddy when I can, I've been minding my own business."

"Is she performing any better?"

"I think so. And she had this interesting idea about us tackling more crime stories. She did a whole a.n.a.lysis on how well those stories rate."

My mouth fell open. "I can't believe it," I said. "I did that a.n.a.lysis and turned it over to her for background."

"Pretty Machiavellian of her."

Though I had warned Maddy about contacting Vicky's producers, I'd never gotten around to saying I'd been told "hands off" in regard to the crime stories.

"Well, I hope she submits the d.a.m.n thing," I said, p.i.s.sed as h.e.l.l. "It will bite her in the b.u.t.t, just like it did me."

As I began to clear the dishes Alex joined in, and we carried everything to the kitchen. Loading the dishwasher, our hands brushed momentarily. I realized how strange it was to have him in my apartment, inches away from me. Only days ago, I'd been giving him instructions at work.

"I was going to bring you something chocolatey for dessert," Alex said, "but I figured your stomach would recoil at the idea."

"I'm afraid it will be years before I even look at anything chocolate again," I said. "Dove bars all over Manhattan can sleep soundly tonight."

He laughed. "Where did that brownie supposedly come from, anyway?" he asked.

s.h.i.t, I thought. I should have known that would be next. Wiping the countertop, I explained the circ.u.mstances and how I'd thought C. stood for Carter.

"Were you guys pretty tight?" Alex had said it easily enough, but I knew the question was loaded.

I sighed, turned, and faced him. "I should admit this now, because it will probably come out eventually. It's one of the things that hurt my cause last week. I had a brief fling with Carter."

Alex tipped his head back a little and parted his lips, as if a lightbulb had gone off in his mind.

"Was it obvious?" I asked.

"Not to me," he said. "But after I landed the job, I heard rumors that he was involved with a woman at work."

"We weren't seeing each other that long. It only started after my life began to unravel. And I'm going to plead temporary insanity."

He looked directly at me, those hazel eyes both curious and bemused. "From you, I'll accept the plea," he said. "But I can hardly blame Carter."

"Thanks," I said. I felt momentarily fl.u.s.tered by the comment and changed the subject awkwardly as I walked him to the door. But later, lying in bed, I realized how much I'd enjoyed his company over dinner. Thinking about him kept me from brooding about Maddy's sneaky move.

First thing the next day, I booked the rental apartment for the rest of the week and then walked the twelve blocks north to Ninety-third Street and Lexington Avenue to pick up two sets of keys. It was an attractive prewar building with a canopy, no doorman but a porter who came on duty at midnight for extra security. Cla.s.sic in design, the apartment was decorated simply but elegantly, almost from the pages of a Restoration Hardware catalog: a sofa in lavender linen, a pale leather armchair, and on top of the mantel, two carved wooden urn-like sculptures with finials on top.

On Wednesday morning I returned with a few basic groceries: coffee, OJ, bagels. I filled a bowl on the coffee table with tangerines and set a flat of gra.s.s on the mantel between the urns. It was a bit manic, I knew, but I kept hearing Alex's words in my head, that Sharon might be running hot and cold.

I was back before noon, waiting for Sharon. I'd offered to pick her up at Penn Station, but she'd insisted on hailing a cab herself. I figured that even with traffic, she'd arrive by noon. At 12:10, she still wasn't there, and I could feel my tension mounting. Then the buzzer sounded.

She was dressed in white pants, a pink top, a cotton sweater in a pink and yellow floral print, and big gold hoop earrings. She looked nervous but excited. I showed her around the apartment, poured us each a gla.s.s of sparkling water, and suggested we sit in the living room.

"Gosh," she said. "This apartment is gorgeous. I feel like I have my own place in the city."

I smiled. "When you were in local news, did you ever consider working at a bigger job down here one day?"

She shrugged. "I was probably pretty different from most of the people you've known in the business. I never thought of myself as ambitious-I just loved sports and kind of fell into work at the station through a contact my dad had. And then a funny thing happened. I was good at it, and the more I tasted success, the more driven I felt. I started to imagine making a stab at New York one day. Then, as you know, everything fell apart." She took a quick sip of water, her pink lipstick leaving an imprint on the gla.s.s. "What about you?" she asked. "I bet you always dreamed about coming here."

"Yes," I said. "Though initially, not with a plan to be in television. I wanted to make my mark as a print journalist. I started appearing on the morning shows to chat about articles I'd written, and almost instantly, I was hooked."

"Why did TV appeal to you so much more than print?" she asked.

"The pace, for one thing. The sheer thrill of being live. And there was something so, I don't know, validating, about being on television."

My reply surprised me. I'd fielded variations on the question numerous times over the years but had never responded that way. I wasn't even sure what I'd meant. "Do you have family up in Albany?" I asked.

"I was married for a while but divorced about five years ago. No kids. I'm seeing someone now, a nice guy named Hal. He's proud of me for doing this."

I checked if she'd like to grab a meal later, but she insisted she would be fine eating dinner alone, that from the cab she'd spotted a little restaurant nearby she wanted to try.

"I'm just going to pretend I'm Mary Tyler Moore tonight," she said, smiling. "If I had a hat, I'd toss it in the air."

"Sure," I said, "but stick close to the neighborhood. We don't want Vicky figuring out you're here."

"Right, I understand."

"About tomorrow. Because of traffic, we should allow about an hour to make it downtown. Why don't I swing by in a cab at eight?"

"No, no, I can manage on my own if you give me the address. This is important to me. I won't be late."

I didn't like the idea of her going on her own, but I wanted to keep the goodwill flowing and chose not to press the matter. I wrote out Lisa's address, thanked Sharon again, and said goodbye.

I headed home, stopping briefly at the Korean market to pick up a few provisions for myself this time. Walking down my block, I realized that my anxiety had subsided but not completely. Though I was pretty sure by now that Sharon was fully committed, I worried that Lisa would find some issue with her story that I couldn't predict.

Lost in thought, it took me a second to process what I was seeing as I neared my building: Ann was standing not far from the entrance, holding a huge bouquet of flowers. I felt a flash of fury at the sight of her, but I stopped when I reached her.

"Robin, please," she said. "Can we talk?"

"Uh, why don't we go around the corner," I said. "There's a Pain Quotidien, and we can talk there."

I left the groceries and flowers inside with my doorman, and we walked in silence to the cafe, where we found a quiet table at the back. After we ordered drinks, Ann leaned toward me. Blue-gray circles under her eyes betrayed that she'd clearly had a few sleepless nights herself.

"Robin, I don't deserve your forgiveness," she said, "but I'm asking for it anyway. I was a fool to doubt you."

"Why this sudden enlightenment?" I asked, letting the sarcasm drip.

"I've had a few days to think about it. I know you. I know you're not capable of doing any of those things, even if you were under stress."

"You were awfully certain a few days ago."

She pulled her hands together and brought them to her face, pressing them against her mouth. Her fingernails were unpainted and the cuticles ragged. I'd never seen her with anything other than a perfect manicure.

"I'm totally ashamed to admit this, but I let my desperation to protect my job color everything," she said finally, lowering her hands. "Potts knows we're friends, and I think I was afraid to look like I was partial to you. I went overboard to hear his side of things."

The waitress set two bowls of cappuccino on the table, and I looked off, absorbing Ann's words. "That's the last kind of behavior I would have imagined from you, Ann," I said, meeting her eyes again. "If someone had asked me to bet, I would have said you'd always put a friend first."

"And that's how I always saw myself," she said. "But I've let my financial concerns get in the way. Matthew handled our money, and it turns out he made a mess of things. Our only investment was the East Hampton house, and we can't unload it at the moment. I have nightmares about losing my job and being a f.u.c.king bag lady."

"Why didn't you ever mention this?"

"Partly because it's all so tedious. And partly because I was sure the house would sell. But I don't want this to be about my money woes. I want to make up for what I've done."

"Then start with the truth. Did you tell anyone details about my situation with Janice?"

"Absolutely not," she said. "Even when I thought those incidents from your past might be affecting you, I never breathed a word."

"Do you have any idea who did?"

"No, but I can try to find out if you want. I can talk to Potts."

I shook my head. "No, don't say anything to him. I've hired a lawyer, and we'll be making a presentation. If you speak to him, it could throw our plan off."

"Then tell me what I can do. I want to help."

"Okay, you can share relevant information you hear."

"I will," she said, nodding somberly. "I'll keep you abreast of all developments concerning you."

Despite my protests, she picked up the check, and we parted with her promising again to keep me in the loop. As I walked home, I felt several emotions wrestling inside me: anger, sadness, and regret. I wasn't sure the friendship could ever really be repaired.

"So your friend found you?" the doorman said as I collected the flowers and groceries. "She came by a couple of times looking for you."

She'd been persistent, then. Could I give her a second chance? I remembered what Jake had told me the other day, that I'd refused to even entertain the idea of forgiving him. Maybe that was a trait in myself I needed to face: a reluctance to forgive.

I ordered food in and ate alone. Later, I ran out and around the corner for a vanilla ice cream cone. I couldn't even bear looking at the chocolate in the case.

"You seem to be enjoying that," the doorman said when I returned.

I was. Thanks to Lisa and now Sharon, I had a sense the nightmare could end I woke the next morning, thankful to see sun streaming in my window. Good weather meant that Sharon would have no difficulty finding a cab. Nine o'clock came and went. I pictured her telling her story, prayed that it sounded as plausible to Lisa as it did to me. At ten-fifteen the phone rang. Lisa's name was on the screen.

"So how did it go?" I asked.

"Not good," Lisa said. "She never showed."

"What?" I felt as if I'd just been shoved from behind. "Maybe she's lost. She wanted to travel downtown by herself."

"We a.s.sumed at first that she had trouble finding the place. That's why we gave her extra time. But we've tried her cell four or five times. No answer."

Sharon had bailed, just as Alex feared she might.

"Okay, let me head up to where she's staying. She might not have left town yet."

I flew out of the apartment, dressed in jeans and a tank top. I hailed a cab this time, on Madison Avenue, and was at the building in under ten minutes. I was crazed, but I knew that if Sharon was still there, I couldn't let my panic show. I had to calm down and reason with her.

I rang the buzzer twice, but no one answered. I wondered if she was lost. Maybe she'd taken the subway instead of a cab and was trying to find her way back from the far reaches of Brooklyn. There was no cell service underground. I let myself into the building, rode the elevator to the sixth floor, and hurried to the apartment. I knocked twice and, when Sharon didn't answer, opened the door with the extra key.

The first thing I noticed was her big yellow purse squatting on a table in the foyer. She was still here, I realized gratefully. But then I detected that the AC was off and the apartment was hot as h.e.l.l. There was a smell, too, I realized. Something spoiled, like meat left a day too long.

I froze in place, scared. "Sharon?" I called out.

I forced myself to tiptoe into the living room.

One step through the doorway, I saw that something was wrong. The wall by the fireplace was spattered with brown droplets, as if someone had sprayed a drink there. I took two more steps, and my gaze was yanked to the floor.

Just beyond the lavender sofa, Sharon was lying facedown on the rug, dressed in the floral sweater she'd worn yesterday. Her body was saggy, lifeless, and one side of her face was mashed into the carpet. To the right side of her head was a dark half-halo of blood.

chapter 25.

I cried out and jerked backward, fear knocking me onto my heels. But I couldn't tear my eyes away. As I peered closer at Sharon, I saw a huge gash on the back of her head, clotted with dark, ropy blood. A few feet away, on the floor by the wall, was one of the urn-like sculptures from the mantel, lying on its side.

"Sharon," I called again, my voice strangled.

It was clear she was dead. Her right cheek was turned upward, and through strands of her long blond hair, I could see that her eye was open and cloudy.

The words formed in my head: She's been murdered. I stepped back. What if the killer was in the other room?

I spun around and staggered into the foyer. Flung open the door. I ran to the elevator and jabbed again and again at the call b.u.t.ton, twisting my head every second to make certain no one had emerged behind me from the apartment.

From the elevator, I fled through the lobby into the street, and with my hand shaking hard, tapped 911 on my phone. "Someone's been murdered," I told the operator. "A woman. Send the police." It took me a second to remember the address.

"The police have been dispatched," he said. "Please stay on the line."

"I-I can't." I had to call Lisa. "But I'll wait outside."