“Ah, I must one day read that thesis of yours. You have a wonderfully inflated sense of my importance.” She imagined him wearing the same playful smile on his long but distinguished face that she had seen in old interview clips. “In my years of doing this work, the one mistake I’ve seen committed time and time again—and I’m as guilty as anyone—is to make assumptions about emerging pathogens. Whether the spread is random or not, it is vital to keep the possibility in mind, though not to the exclusion of other alternatives. Does that make sense?”

“Absolutely. I will try to keep my mind as open as possible.” “But,” she said with a laugh, “I’m Catholic and Hispanic. I think I’m genetically preprogrammed to always assume the worst.”

“Which makes you the perfect epidemiologist.” Nantal chuckled. “Lina, if I can be of any assistance to you with your investigation, please call me at any time.”

“I might take you up on the offer, Jean.”

“Bien sûr,” he said. “And if you have an extra copy of your thesis … .”

After hanging up, she headed straight down to her convertible in the underground parking. It was a cool drizzly morning, so putting the top down was not an option. She pulled out of the garage and headed for Harborcenter.

Her head ached from all the angles she considered and reconsidered about the MRGAS outbreak. Seeking distraction, she switched on the radio and turned up the volume when she heard Sugar Ray’s “Every Morning” playing. The song, a favorite of Keith’s, stirred up memories of her former fiancé. How did we screw it up? she wondered. But it was only nostalgia talking. She remembered the facts vividly.

Lopez had met Keith, an internist, during her first year in med school, the same year her father died. He had been sweet in supporting her through the bleakest period of her life, through daily phone calls, prepared meals, and a shoulder whenever she needed one. His empathy made it easy for her to fall in love with him. And yet, ironically, Keith claimed it was her father—or the memory of him—that kept getting in their way.

She clearly recalled their final night together, four years earlier. They had stayed up the whole night talking, crying, and even making bittersweet love on the sofa. The discussion lacked the shouts and recriminations of the previous heated ones, in part, she thought, because both of them were already resigned to the end of the relationship.

“Lina, it’s impossible to compete with a ghost,” Keith said from where he sat, on the sofa where they had just made love, inches away but without touching.

“I never wanted you to compete,” she said with downcast eyes.

“But that’s how I feel. Like I’m living in your dad’s shadow. And I can’t ever measure up to him.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Lopez muttered.