I loved him, too.

That’s why Joe had just moved to San Francisco from DC, ending our tumultuous long-distance relationship in favor of starting something new and maybe permanent. And although Joe had rented a fantastic apartment on Lake Street, a month after his move he’d brought over his copper-bottomed cookware and started sleeping in my bed five nights a week. Luckily, I’d been able to move up to the third floor of my building to give us a little more room.

Our relationship had gotten richer and more loving, exactly what I’d hoped for.

So I had to ask myself – why was the engagement ring Joe had given me still in its black velvet box, diamonds blazing in the dark?

Why couldn’t I just say yes?

“What did Cindy tell you?” I asked him.

“Verbatim? She said, ‘Here’s Martha. Lindsay got a break in the Campion case and she’s on it. Tell. Her. She wrecked our weekend, and I’m calling her in the morning for a quote. And she’d better give me a good one.’ ”

I laughed at Joe’s imitation of Cindy, who is not only my friend, but also the top reporter on the Chronicle’s crime desk.

“It’s either tell her everything,” I said, “or tell her nothing. And for now, it’s nothing.”

“So, fill me in, Blondie. Since I’m wide-awake.”

I took a deep breath and told Joe all about Junie Moon; how she’d denied everything for two hours before telling us to turn off the camera, then talking about her “date” with Michael and his apparent heart attack; and how instead of calling 911, Junie had sung Michael Campion a lullaby as his heart bucked to a halt and killed him.

“Oh, for God’s sake.”

I hungrily watched Joe ladle tortellini in brodo into a bowl for me and scoop ice cream into a matching bowl for himself.