I grunt noncommittally as I grab my coat and head for the elevator. But he's right: I need answers. Need to know if I'm seeing clearly or if I'm just seeing what I want to see.
That means it's time to pay Kat a visit.
I've planned this lunch like the tactical strike it is. Avec isn't just Chicago's hottest restaurant---it's our old battleground, where Kat and I used to wage war between courses. Back when I was stupid enough to mistake her hunger for love.
My driver brings me to the front door of the restaurant, a gleaming facade of black glass and ornate gold. Chicago wind sneaks in the doors after me as I stride in.
The hostess recognizes me at once and hurries to usher me in. I choose my position with military precision: corner table, back to the wall, perfect sightline to the entran
