I'm going out for a little while. I should be back by 8. ~Gwyn

Detective Mariano surprisingly gets right back to me. Tx. Crazy day. Prob won't be before 11.

After I clean off my car, I also try this: Sam, where are you? Please let me know you're all right. I also call his cell. It goes right to voicemail. Metrazzle? No answer either, so that's where I head.

It's dark by the time I arrive and the parking lot is eerily empty, and not plowed, not recently. All appearances suggest I will have no problem sneaking in unnoticed. But I'm not sure if I can trust appearances.

I trudge to the door, the deep snow finding a way to wedge itself between my boots and jeans. And it's cold out, the kind that no amount of ordinary clothing can protect against.

The keys labeled "shop" work without an issue. I relock the door from the inside and pull a flashlight from my purse.

I know exactly where I'm going–Sam's office. I keep my gloves on and start with his duffel bag, the one he had packed to vacate my house. There are a few documents in there–bank statements–and as I guessed, he's just scraping by. Credit card bills–balances higher than he can theoretically pay. And a birth certificate. At first glance, everything's in place. Samuel Seamus Fitzpatrick. His date of birth is right. Queens, New York. I already knew he was from the States. The only strange thing is that his mother has a different last name than he does–Melinda Duncan–and no father is listed. She must not have been married.

Sam never told me that.

I put everything back in order and move on to his desk. The top drawer is locked, so I try the side drawers. There are handfuls of newspaper clippings inside. Obituaries, garage sales, estate sales, court rulings–civil, criminal. There are enough of them crumpled in there, though, to suggest extreme laziness or a bizarre obsession. But, technically, each piece of paper can be considered work related.

At the back of the bottom drawer, I find a handgun. I pull out the magazine. It's fully loaded. I put the cartridge back in and cock the gun. My father was once a brigadier-general for the Canadian Armed Forces and I was his only child. I guess we all have our secrets.

I aim the gun at the chimes dangling from the front door of the building. And as soon as I do, there's a jarring rattle to my left and a shatter. The gun nearly bobbles out of my hands. The noise was just the insane wind and a glass figurine that had fallen from the drafty windowsill, but I take it as a warning to get out soon. Ned or my husband and possibly his new serial-killer girlfriend could be arriving at any moment.

I never believed for a second that Sam is in danger. This Rebecca Donovan may be Sam's type, but he certainly isn't hers.

With that in mind, I add the handgun to my purse and leave the building.