CHAPTER 5

The next morning, I got up and ran out along the lake. It was still dark. The city lay before me, edged in light. To my left, I could feel the water, hear it rustle against the rocks. A thin line of pink was rising from a distant shore called Michigan, offering the first hint of dawn.

I was halfway home when I saw her. She was about a hundred yards ahead of me, wearing a black Gore-Tex shell over a long-sleeve yellow sweatshirt, black runner’s gloves, and cap. Her stride was smooth and nice. I ran behind her for a minute or so, then pulled alongside.

“Hey.”

Rachel Swenson’s eyes widened a bit. She stopped and turned down the volume on an iPod Shuffle clipped to her upper arm.

“Michael Kelly.”

Her cheeks were red with the cold. Underneath her hat, she looked like she might be a law student at Northwestern, getting in her miles before an early morning class in contracts. In reality, Rachel Swenson was a sitting judge for the Northern District of Illinois and a woman I had been meaning to call for at least a year. She leaned close and gave me a hug. I got my arms up, almost too late, and then hung on too long.

“How are you?” she said.

“Pretty good. You run out here often?”

“Not as much as I should. How about you?”

“I try. Gets harder when it’s cold.”

“Tell me about it.”

On cue, a volley of wind punched in off the lake. Rachel shivered and stamped her feet. I shook out my arms and tried to think of something to say. We stepped into a pause that seemed to last an hour and a half. Rachel got us out the other side with a thud.

“I saw you the other day.”

“Where?”

“I was at Graceland,” she said. “Thursday morning.”

Graceland was a cemetery in Chicago. Nicole Andrews was buried there. She had been a friend to both of us. Now she was dead. Murdered, actually. By a third friend.

“I sat in my car and waited for you to leave,” Rachel said.

“You should have come over.” A second burst of wind pulled the words from my mouth and scattered them across the lakefront. Rachel, however, caught my meaning.

“Seemed like you wanted to be alone,” she said.

I shrugged.

“I waited there almost an hour, Michael. Then I left.”

“Sorry,” I said.

“Don’t be sorry. How often do you go to Nicole’s grave?”

“Not that much.”

“How often?”

“Not much. Maybe once a month. I just stay awhile. Sometimes it’s a good place to think.”

Rachel was looking at me closely now. I didn’t like it.

“You okay, Michael?”

“I’m okay.”

And I was. At least, I thought so. Nicole was my best friend. Always would be. Death was just another thing to work around.

“Why don’t we get together sometime,” Rachel said.

“I was going to call and suggest the same thing.”

The judge cocked her hip and tilted her head. “You were going to call?”

“Yes.”

“And ask me out?”

“Exactly.”

“Michael, it’s been at least a year since I’ve talked to you.”

“I know.”

She sighed. “You got my number?”

“I got it. Told you I was going to call.”

Rachel turned on her music and began to jog in place. “This is where I turn around. Call me. Drinks, dinner. Whatever. Might do us both some good.”

I watched her go. It was cold, but I watched her, anyway. Then I headed home. Ripped off the last mile and a half, feeling strong, promising myself I’d call this woman, wondering how in the hell I was going to find out her phone number.