He’d originally been interested in radiology because it was one of the highest paying specialty professions in the medical field. To his surprise, he enjoyed the work and had a keen talent for it. The salary—a staggering sum, more money than he’d ever planned on earning—had become almost secondary to the sense of pleasure and purpose he derived from the job.

Nevertheless, in the midst of the work day’s hustle and bustle, he couldn’t stop thinking about Grace, the events of that weekend replaying in his mind in a lurid, continuous loop. The private investigator had yet to return his call, and Troy had resolved to ring him again as soon he stepped out for lunch.

At one in the afternoon, he finally had time to spare. He exited the hospital and was striding across the parking garage to his black BMW sedan, the car parked in a section of the deck reserved for hospital staff. As he was about to open the car door, a woman called out.

“Troy, wait up.”

Lips pursed, he turned. It was Liz, of course. She was rushing to catch up to him, zipping up her forest-green jacket against the blustery November day.

Liz was thirty years old, a nurse attached to the intensive care unit. They had met two years ago, innocently enough, in the hospital cafeteria. As a general guideline, he avoided romantic involvements with women at work, but Liz was so attractive that he had let it happen. He had recently begun to regret the decision.

Ironically, Liz looked as if she could have been Monica’s slightly younger sister. They had similar complexions, facial features, and body types. Years ago, one of Troy’s ex-girlfriends had declared that if one had gathered all of Troy’s lovers together in a room, it could have been mistaken for a family reunion.

“We can’t go to lunch together,” he said. “Rule number one: keep it discreet. You know that.”

“I need to talk to you.”

Talk about rules. In Troy’s experience, whenever a woman that you were screwing said she wanted to “talk,” the rules dictated that was never a good thing.

“I came over on Saturday night,” he said. “We could have talked then. Has something happened?”

Saturday evening, he had slipped away from home and visited Liz at her condo in Dunwoody, under the guise of heading out to the gym. Admittedly, during the sixty-minute workout in Liz’s bedroom, they hadn’t engaged in much conversation, but he preferred it that way. He wasn’t seeing Liz because he wanted a confidante or a best friend.

“I can take my own car if that makes you feel any better,” she said. “Where were you planning to go?”

He noticed that she had avoided his question. He shrugged. “Hadn’t decided. Somewhere quiet.”

“You in the mood for Greek? I know a nice spot, great gyros. You’d like it.”