“What’s on your agenda for tomorrow?” he asks, voice distant, already sailing on the boat to Dreamland.

“The usual sights. The Art Institute. The Bean. Maybe some more shopping.”

“Nice,” Jeff sleepily murmurs. “You’ll have fun.”

“That’s why I came along,” I say, when, in fact, it’s not.

Fun has nothing to do with my reason for coming here. Jeff has nothing to do with it, either. While he was in the shower, washing off the sweat and smell of humdrum sex, I was on my phone, reserving a rental car.

In the morning, I’m going to drive to Indiana and finally get some answers.

CHAPTER 28

Roughly 230 miles lay between Chicago and Muncie, and I drive them as fast as my rented Camry will allow. My goal is to get to Lisa’s house and see if I can learn something—anything—before returning to the city by evening. The trip is long, about seven hours total, but if I keep a quick pace, I can be back before Jeff knows I’m gone.

On the way there, I make good time, stopping just once at a convenience store off I-65. It’s one of those sad, generic places that wants you to think it’s part of a chain. But the seams show. All those sticky soda cans, scuffed floor tiles and racks of nudie mags wrapped in condoms of clear plastic. I buy a bottle of water, a granola bar and a pack of cheese crackers. The breakfast of champions.

A rack of silvery lighters sits on the counter. When the stoner clerk cracks open a fresh roll of pennies for the register, I grab one and stuff it into my pocket. He catches me, smiles, sends me off with a wink.

Then I’m back in the car, marking my time by the way the sunlight slants across the flat ribbon of asphalt. The scenery streaking past the window is rural and stark. The houses have stripped siding and leaning porches. Miles of fields fly by, their cornstalks reduced to stubs. Exit signs point to small towns with misleadingly exotic names. Paris. Brazil. Peru.

By the time the sun has become an unblinking yellow eye directly overhead, I’m steering through Muncie, searching for the address Lisa gave me in case I ever wanted to write.

I find her house on a quiet side street full of ranch homes and sycamore trees. Lisa’s is noticeably nicer than the others, with fresh paint on the shutters and pristine patio furniture on the front porch. A circular flower bed sits in the middle of the well-trimmed lawn, a fiberglass birdbath rising from its center like a giant mushroom.

A station wagon with a PBA sticker slapped to its back bumper sits in the driveway. Definitely not Lisa’s car.

After parking on the street, I check myself in the rearview mirror, making sure I look somber and curious, not deranged and stalkerish. At the hotel, I took great care in picking an outfit that walked the fine line between casual and mourning. Dark jeans, deep purple blouse, black flats.

I head to the front door using the flagstone walkway that cuts through the yard. When I ring the doorbell, I hear it echo back at me from deep inside the house.

The woman who answers the door is dressed in a monochrome outfit of tan slacks and beige polo shirt. Tall and angular, I suspect she must have resembled Katharine Hepburn in her younger years. Now, though, webs of wrinkles surround her hazel eyes. She brings to mind an Okie in a Walker Evans photo—thin, hard and bone-tired.

I know exactly who she is.

Nancy.

“Can I help you?” she says in a voice as blunt as a Plains wind.

I have no plan about what to do or say. All that mattered was getting here. Now that I’ve arrived, I don’t know what my next step will be.

“Hi,” I say. “I’m—”

Nancy nods. “Quincy. I know.”

She looks at my fingernails, messily painted black. My right hand, with its mottled scabs smarting like a sunburn across my knuckles, catches her attention. I shove it deep into my pocket.

“You here for the funeral?” she says

“I thought that already happened.”

“Tomorrow.”

I should have known there’d be a delay. There was an autopsy to contend with, plus that all-important tox report.

“Lisa thought a lot about the two of you,” Nancy says. “I know she would want you there.”

As would members of the press, who I assume will be arriving in droves, the clicking of their cameras punctuating the Twenty-Third Psalm.

“It’s probably not a good idea,” I say. “I’m afraid I’d be a distraction.”

“Then it’d be real nice if you told me why you’re here. I’m no genius, but I sure as hell know that Muncie’s not exactly a stone’s throw from New York.”

“I’m here to learn about Lisa,” I say. “I’m here for details.”

Inside, Lisa’s house is a tidy, depressing affair. The bulk of it is taken up by the living room, dining area and kitchen, which merge together to form one giant room. The walls are covered in wood paneling, making the place feel musty and old-fashioned. It’s the home of a widowed grandmother, not a forty-two-year-old woman.

I see no signs that a murder took place here. There are no cops dusting for prints, no grim-faced CSI grunts picking through the carpet with tweezers. Those tasks are complete, results hopefully pending.

Stacks of cardboard boxes—some folded, others not—clutter the living room, which has already been stripped of a few knickknacks. End tables bear dust-free circles where vases and bowls once sat.