“Let me see if I understand this. You work for a major daily newspaper, where they send reporters off to Iraq and Iran and Afghanistan and God knows where else, and they expose murderous biker gangs and do first-person stories about what it’s like to be a skyscraper window washer, and you’re worried about air quality and computer radiation?”

“You make it sound kind of weenie-like,” I said.

Again, Trixie gave me the half smile. “Sarah okay with you and me being friends?”

I nodded. “I were you, I’d be more worried about my own reputation, hanging out with a writer for The Metropolitan.”

“And how was your trip? Didn’t you guys go someplace?”

“That was months ago,” I said. “A little trip to Rio.”

“Good time?”

I shrugged. “I found it a bit stressful.” I paused, then added, “I’m not a good traveler.”

“How’s Angie?” Trixie asked. My daughter was nineteen now, in her second year at Mackenzie University.

“Good,” I said. “Paul’s good, too. He’s seventeen now, finishing up high school.”

“They’re good kids.” Trixie’s eyes seemed to mist when she said it, and then she seemed to be looking off to one side, at nothing in particular.

“I keep getting this vibe that there’s something on your mind,” I said. “Talk to me.”

Trixie said nothing, breathed in slowly through her nose. If she needed time to work up to something, I could wait.

“Well,” she said, “you know the local paper in Oakwood? The Suburban? There’s this-”

And then the cell phone inside my jacket began to ring.

“Hang on,” I said to Trixie. I got out the phone, flipped it open, put it to my ear. “Yeah?”

“Zack?”

“Hi, Sarah.”

“Where are you?”

“I’m having lunch with Trixie. Remember I said?”

“So you’re not driving or anything?”

“No. I’m sitting down.” My mind flashed to Paul and Angie. When you have teenagers, and someone’s about to give you some sort of bad news, you know it’s probably going to be about them. “Has something happened with the kids?” I asked.