“Zoe,” said Conner, “let’s not go there tonight. I’ve had a long day. I think you should make an appointment with Dr. Eisdorfer like we talked about. It feels like you’re slipping back into some not so good old habits.”

After their less than happy call ended, tears filled Zoe’s eyes and her lips quivered. I was looking forward to his call tonight but he was grumpy from the minute we started talking.

Walking into one of her four bathrooms, she splashed cold water on her face and looked in the mirror. You look horrible. Going into the kitchen, she poured herself a small glass of bourbon and headed down the hallway to her large blue-and-beige master bedroom. Placing the bourbon on her nightstand, she opened her big brown leather bag and plucked out a brand-new prescription container of Ambien that she had picked up that afternoon. She looked at the label. Count: 60. That should last for a while. Going into the bathroom, she opened the medicine cabinet over the sink and placed the bottle of pills inside.

From the bathroom, she heard her phone beep and raced to the bedroom to get it. It was Sean trying to FaceTime. When his face popped up on the screen, it made her smile.

“Hey girl,” said Sean. “Quite a day we had today.”

“Tell me about it,” said Zoe crossing her eyes, making him laugh.

“After our meeting at the restaurant tomorrow morning, we’ll go through every piece of information from today and try to figure it all out.”

“I bought a notebook on my way home to keep all of our thoughts and facts in one place,” said Zoe, holding up a medium-sized, hot-pink spiral binder. “Was it me or were the cops not very interested in our case?”

“We didn’t give them much to go on,” said Sean as Zoe took another sip of her drink. “I think it’s up to us to bring the police something real and tangible that they can investigate.”

“That poor eBay man has only a few more days to live if we don’t do something,” said Zoe. “Maybe we should hire a private investigator?”

“I don’t have the money for that, and neither do you. Besides, there’s not enough time.”

Zoe nodded as she looked at her surroundings. The irony was staggering. She owned a seven- or eight-million-dollar New York City apartment and could barely pay the maintenance and taxes. With what she earned at the restaurant and Conner’s salary they made it work, but had little left over.

When her father died, she had inherited the lavish apartment as well as his savings account containing about $200,000. After she paid the funeral expenses and settled some of her father’s other bills there had been $145,000 left. Since then, she had used the remainder of that money to cover her monthly expenses but it was running out.