If I ever married anyone, it would be Simon. But I never will. I will never latch myself to another person. I learned how to live alone, and I guess I learned it too well.

We had a good run, starting three years ago, when I moved to Chicago after my sister’s suicide. I was a mess, and he wasn’t. He sobered me up. He pulled me out of my funk. I never took drugs again and I never sold my body again. He was the first man who ever treated me like I was worth anything. He put me on a pedestal. But I saw how much more he wanted from me—children, marriage—so I cut it off. That was never going to be me. And I don’t want him to settle any more than I want to settle for myself. I moved to Wisconsin and started working for Safe Haven.

And didn’t speak to Simon for months.

Until last May, when he saw Lauren on Michigan Avenue.

After finishing a microwave dinner at my apartment, I drive to the forest preserve in Burlington, thirty minutes away. I’ve been coming three times a day—first thing in the morning, at lunchtime, and after work. I take the hiking trail and follow it around a couple of bends to a vista point about a half-mile up with a large wooden plaque describing the history of the lake down below. I reach behind the plaque and peel off a container attached by Velcro. Inside the container is the burner phone Simon gave me for the post-Halloween fun.

I power it on and give it a moment for the messages to load. First, the message I sent Simon on Halloween night, after I drove up here to Wisconsin:

Mon, Oct 31, 11:09 PM

Gavin saw me. He knows about alias. He wants half the $$ on 11/3 or he exposes me to you. Gave me good kick in ribs too. Need my help??

And then the responses from Simon over the last few days, with a new message today:

Tues, Nov 1, 12:06 PM

No I will deal with him. Nothing much in papers today.

Wed, Nov 2, 11:39 AM

Newspapers but little detail. Working out time to talk to police don’t worry

Today 4:34 PM

Good news/bad. Gavin taken care of. Met with police, they know full alias name too (receptionist?) but otherwise flailing

“Shit.” They know the name Vicky Lanier. The cops know. He’s probably right—it was the receptionist. Emily, I think her name was. That’s the only thing I can think of, too.

But his text says “otherwise flailing.” Meaning they don’t know what to do with the name Vicky Lanier. That was the hope. There’s no trace of me otherwise. That name will take them nowhere.

And at least Gavin’s taken care of. What does he mean by that? What did Simon do? My guess, knowing Simon, he somehow talked Gavin down.

It all comes down to fingerprints for me. If I left a stray print anywhere in Nick’s apartment or at his office, I’m done. They’ll run it through the national database and find me in five seconds, registered with the state of Wisconsin.

Simon figured they’d process the fingerprints within a day or so after finding Lauren. Which means I could find out any second now.

Either I’m scot-free or I’m cooked.

99

Jane

“What? What?” Jane shouts into the phone.

“Don’t shoot the messenger,” says Sergeant Don Cheronis. “The coroner’s office, they march to their own beat. I told them to hold off. They don’t care what I fucking think.”

“They must care a little.”

“Not really.”

“Well, did you push back, Don?”

“I— Jane, you have to understand . . .”

“You agree with them, don’t you?”

“I . . . I think it’s probably the right call, yeah.”

Suicide. The Cook County medical examiner is calling Nicholas Caracci’s death a suicide. And Cheronis didn’t put up a fight because he doesn’t disagree.

Nice way to start a Friday morning.

—

Chief Carlyle sits stone-faced, hands laced together, behind his desk, while Jane gives him the latest update.

“What you’re telling me is interesting,” he says, “but it’s not evidence. Not proof. You keep pooh-poohing the strong evidence of guilt we have against Nick Caracci, basically by saying it’s all a frame-up, it’s too convenient—which you could say about most crimes solved by law enforcement in the history of the country. And then you wrap your arms around evidence against Simon Dobias that isn’t evidence at all. It’s just maybe, coulda, what about this, what about that. Now you bring me this ‘Vicky Lanier,’ but you don’t know anything about her except, number one, she screwed Nick in his office and, number two, Simon Dobias had a strong reaction to her name. And you don’t even think ‘Vicky Lanier’ is her real name. Hell, they just dug up a Vicky Lanier in—where was it?”

“West Virginia,” says Jane. “Chief, I understand we’re not there yet. Just—”

“Oh, a lot of people think we are there, and we’ve been there since we found Nick Caracci’s body. The guy’s a con artist who preys on rich, unhappily married women. Lauren Betancourt was a rich, unhappily married woman.”

“Chief, if you were in that house yesterday with Simon Dob—”