We spent a couple of hours discussing the case over the pizza, laying out scenarios and theories. There was lots of fodder for theorizing now, as if there hadn’t been enough before. Why create a fake Manson connection? Had someone tipped off the Feds? Or had they figured it out, too? How was the killer going to react?

We debated the possibilities into the wee hours, and I loved every minute of it, like those nights with my dad. Not that Jack reminded me of my father—far from it. But it was nice to go back to that memory place again, and to have someone to go there with.

The next morning, I walked to my bedroom door and listened for Jack. Was he still asleep? I hoped so. I wasn’t ready to face him yet.

I’d awoken in the aftermath of a dream. I’d been back in that closet in the hospital. Someone had been coming down the hall, and Jack had been whispering for me to stay still and quiet, and I’d been straining to hear footsteps, heart thumping, adrenaline racing. His hands had slid down my hips and under my skirt, lifting it and—

The dream hadn’t ended there, but that was as far as I planned to remember it.

I knew where the dream came from—being stuffed into that closet with Jack, in the midst of what had been a rather long dry spell. Still, knowing where it sprang from wasn’t going to make facing him this morning any easier.

So I’d dressed as quietly as I could, and now I was hoping to sneak past him and head out for coffee before he awoke. Yet when I cracked open the door, Jack was gone.

There was a note on the table. I wiped the sleep from my eyes, then squinted down at the precise, black strokes. “Getting coffee. Back soon. Wait.”

I could wait. Or I could take a cold shower. But there was something else I could do, too, something my body was screaming for almost as much as it’d been screaming for that dream. I stripped off my clothes and pulled on my jogging pants and T-shirt.

By “wait,” I assumed Jack meant “Don’t go home” or “Don’t have breakfast without me.” Sure, it could mean “Don’t leave the hotel room,” but that’s the problem with one-word sentences—they’re so open to interpretation.

I donned the wig, contacts, mascara and lipstick. Any more makeup than that and I’d be wearing it on my shirt-front by the end of the run. Then I amended his note, crossing off “Getting coffee” and replacing it with “Gone jogging.”