Lucy doesn't want to think about James. She hates it when he hijacks her thoughts, the way he does. Like now.

Lucy finally has some time at her desk and is trying to get through the budget numbers, the stuff she has been putting off. She pretends that she is okay with this side of her job. Sure, leave those with me she offered, knowing that Shawn would never get it done in time anyway. It is like she is always covering up for somebody or another. But that is teamwork, right?

Then James pops by. She blames him for doing that, for sneaking into her consciousness and pulling her away from whatever kind of budgetary fun she is having, or hoping to have, and reminding her that she wants to be with him. She hates that he has that kind of power over her, still.

So, she tells him to get lost. Sometimes he listens, other times he sticks around, the sneaky bastard. He follows her, hiding just behind whatever it is she is doing, like those apps that run in the background, sucking up the bandwidth. Or he is in the next room, listening to her conversations. Sometimes, if she says something particularly clever or witty or sarcastic, she smiles because she knows James is finding it amusing. Then, inevitably, it hits her that he actually didn't hear that, or that he isn't looking over her shoulder as she talks to herself, asking him if she should buy the kale tortillas at Trader Joe's. She knows he would laugh at her.

Ten years, already, yet it seems like they just split. During the day, she can usually keep him far enough in the background that he isn't bothering her too much, but at night, well that's different. They still meet in her dreams. It is always a happy meeting.

Last night they met at his residence at college. In her dream, the door was open to the building so she just went in. Lucy walked the familiar hall, made a turn or two, through another door and kept walking. It was like she was in a maze or something. The halls all looked identical with painted block walls and mauve berber carpeting. She has had this dream before, so she knows where she is going. She is not afraid as she descends a set of stairs, deep below the building. There are no other students now, just her, and her destination. She sees the door ahead, one of the endless row of doorways on both sides of the hall. There is no doubt in her mind; she stops in front and turns the knob. It opens, and James, sitting at a dorm room desk, lit from above by the cold florescence of a lamp, looks up from his papers and smiles. And when they embrace, Lucy is filled with the warmth and joy and peace that only the James of her dreams can provide.

Fuck it. Lucy closes the spreadsheet. She knows she isn't getting anything done. It pisses her off that James keeps distracting her like this. Bastard. A glance at the time is enough of a reason to call it a day. She wonders if they will meet again, tonight.

Lucy stops peddling and lets the bike coast around the corner. She leans into the turn, like she always does here, starting to bank at the sewer grate that has never seen water. Then she lets gravity pull her home. She has got it figured out: if there is no wind in her face, no resistance, she can crunch low on her bike and coast the rest of the way. She can duck and slip off the bike path, onto her street and make her way right into her driveway without exerting any energy or without applying the brakes. She enjoys the feeling of efficiency as her bike comes to a stop right at her doorstep. It is how she measures success these days.

But this afternoon she is forced to alter her usual path of least resistance. Ahead, on her street, there are police cruisers, two—no three—that last one is unmarked. And a white van too, a news crew. There is a yellow tape line, POLICE—DO NOT CROSS. A police officer is motioning for to her to pass on the left, but that is her house on the right. She needs to get in there. As she brakes and drops her foot to the pavement, someone is approaching her. A blond woman in a gold skirt who looks like a real estate agent, but she has a microphone in her hand, and a grimy man that looks like he works at a comic book store chases after her. He has a large black video camera over his shoulder. Lucy had no idea that they still make cameras that big.

"Excuse me. Do you live here? Do you know the victim?" The TV lady rushes to stand next to Lucy, framing her house in the background. Comic Book Dude gives a nod and Blondie flips the hair from her eyes.

"What is going on? What victim? What are you talking about?"

"Okay, we're are rolling," Barbie Girl says. Lucy drops her bike and rushes to the police barrier.

A large cop approaches her at the tape line and tells her that she must stay behind the barrier. When Lucy tells him that she lives in there, frantically pointing to her house, the cop asks her if she is Lucy Lumalabas. At the sound of hearing her name being uttered from the police officer, Lucy feels her heart stop.

"What has happened Officer?"

The cop lifts the tape and walks with Lucy to her doorstep. "Can we go to your apartment? We have some questions we would like to ask you."

An older man in a tan suit jacket and dress pants approaches them as they near the entrance. The cop introduces him as Detective Polonius and he gestures to her, asking if they can go inside. Lucy unlocks the door.

"What is going on, Detective?"

"We are investigating the disappearance of Isabella Measures. I was hoping you could help us."

"Of course. I hope she is alright."

"It is not looking very likely that she is alright."

Lucy feels the wind being knocked out of her. She drops to sit on the steps heading upstairs. Polonius takes out a notepad and pen and begins to scribble. Lucy tries to get her head around what happened over the past week, replaying the events. She knows she will be asked specific details and hopes that she remembers things correctly.

"How long had you known the missing person?"

"What was the nature of your relationship?

"Was she prompt with her rent?"

"Had you ever seen her with anyone before?"

"Did she ever mention a boyfriend? An ex-lover?"

"Was she pregnant?"

Lucy notices how the detective uses the past tense. She believes him, when he said that it is unlikely that she is alright. The room begins to spin and Lucy feels nauseous.

Now the tough questions, and she can barely think straight: "When was the last time you had contact with Ms. Measures?"

"I dropped by for a glass of wine last Friday night." Polonius scribbles.

"Did she say anything about going away, or that she would be going to visit anyone?"

Lucy tries to think back. They talked about Isabella's brother. And Lucy tried to convince her to get a hold of Angelo Lord—to see if she could sway him with her charm. Lucy tries to act casual when she answers: "No, not really."

"No, or not really?"

"I gave her some advice about who to talk to about a work-related matter, that is all."

He writes some more. "Did she say anything about problems at work, or if someone was bothering her there?"

"No, she had just started at Alpha. It was about her brother, actually."

"Was that the last time you spoke with her? Any other correspondence?"

Lucy now sees that it is inevitable. She will have to tell him about the emails, about Isabella's eventual meeting with Angelo Lord, the conversation that she witnessed, or perhaps even encouraged. She is sweating as she tells the detective about Lord, about being copied on all the correspondence, how Isabella made sure to include Lucy in the entire conversation. Then she starts to question Isabella's motives: why would she make the effort of copying the emails to Lucy, unless she suspected something might happen? Did she foresee trouble, wanted someone else in the room, so to speak, or was she leaving bread crumbs so all this would eventually lead back to Angelo Lord?

Detective Polonius says nothing as he scribbles. He flips another page in his notebook, looks at his wristwatch and likely scribbles the time. Then he says, as though it is already understood, "we will need copies of all your emails."

"Yes, of course."

"And did you hear from or correspond with Ms. Measures after Sunday?"

"No I didn't, Detective. Can you tell me what you think happened to her? When is the last time anyone saw her?"

The detective flips back through his notes. "Her roommate says that she has not been home since Tuesday morning. That is the last time anyone has seen or talked to her." He lifts his head and gazes around Lucy's apartment, like he is looking for something.

"I haven't seen her, honest."

"I believe you Ms.—Lumalabas. While we are interested in what you have told us, you are not considered a person of interest, if you know what I mean."

A uniformed policeman opens the door, and looking like he is apologizing for interrupting something, places a piece of paper in the detective's hand. Polonius looks at it and nods. The door closes, and the detective continues, "Ms. Lumalabas, we are most interested in your story about Mr. Lord."

He holds up the paper so Lucy can see it. It is a photo, from a newspaper. In the picture is Angelo Lord, at a podium, fist pumping high in the air. In the background is the stylized greek script of the Alpha logo. In the backdrop of faces, behind Lord and below the logo is a fluorescent orange circle, hand drawn with a marker, around a face—the face of Isabella Measures.