I worked relentlessly. I remained at the office for 27 straight hours. I had arrived around 3pm on Wednesday, and did not go home until after 6pm on Thursday. My hair was a tangled mess, my clothes were wrinkled, and I know I smelled horrible. The hearing on the Motion for Preliminary Injunction was scheduled for 9 am on Friday. I had done the absolute best I could hope to do to fight the motion. Our team, consisting of Takazawa, outside counsel, various management members and me worked tirelessly until we felt our response was right.

I had hundreds of questions spinning in my head. The lawsuit and motion filed by our competitor cited prior art as a basis for our patent infringement, which meant that they had filed the same or similar patent before we did, therefore they owned the idea. I researched all three patents in depth, and could not for the life of me figure out how our competitor accomplished this feat. The design was very new and very unique. It was a huge moneymaker for us. Takazawa was thrilled with our design team when they came up with the original concept, and then two additional, unique modifications to the original. The company that sued us had filed their patent on an accelerated program, which essentially pushed the idea through the approval process quickly. Their original filing date was four days prior to ours, which was frightening to me. How could two companies come up with three very unique ideas at the exact same time? How did I slip up and miss the prior filing? Was I that lax when scouring the prior art search provided by outside counsel? Would it have mattered if I was more aggressive in having our filings put on the accelerated calendar?

Takazawa and I had long conversations about the possibilities. He voiced the concern he had had right at the time of my fall, that there was a leak within the company. At that time, he was concerned that it was Paul Anderson. Over time, however, Paul won Takazawa's confidence, and was eliminated as a suspect. Eventually, the threat of a leak blew over, and Takazawa focused his attention elsewhere. This lawsuit was a tremendous blow, and we were forced to revisit the possibility of a leak.

Our IS team was immediately put on "red alert" status. All archived electronic records were recalled. Tape backups of our network and email were pulled for review. Takazawa contacted a consultant that dealt specifically with corporate espionage. All of this took place in the space of 27 hours, and I was terribly frightened. This was my backyard, my corporate realm, and it was my fault.

I called a staff meeting late Tuesday afternoon. I grilled each and every one of my employees, down to the law student intern we hired to do research, and the part-time high school girl that did filing and copying. I reviewed telephone records, which I was grateful I was meticulous about keeping. I pored over the files relating to the patent. I insisted that outside counsel meet with their teams to determine whether a leak came from their firm. Throughout all these reactions, I felt Takazawa's disappointed eyes boring into the back of my skull.

All the research, searching, reviewing and grilling yielded nothing thus far. Takazawa was pinning his hopes on a favorable ruling on the Motion, and next on the consultant to uncover the source. I felt rather hopeless myself. There was nothing left to do until after the hearing, when we would begin to fight the big battle. We all went home to rest.

I arrived home Thursday night to a quiet, empty house. I was exhausted and desperately needed a shower, so Michael's absence was not unwelcome at the moment. After a long hot shower and a quick microwave meal, I discovered that I had a ton of adrenaline built up in my system, and Michael's absence became painfully noticeable. I missed him. A lot. He had not come into work on Tuesday afternoon and never showed up on Wednesday. I called his old number, in the event he had gone home, although I knew he would not be at his own empty house. At some point, he had had the number disconnected. He had moved most of his furniture to my place. He lived with me now - or did he?

I walked into my office, thinking of it as the scene of my crime. Michael's desk was barren. His top file cabinet drawer was slightly ajar and empty. His CallerID box was gone, as were most of his desk accessories. The desk itself was locked. I looked for the mail from Wednesday, finally realizing it was still in the mailbox. I leafed through the mail and noted that Michael had removed his mail from the box. I headed to my bedroom, fearing what I would see there. While some of Michael's clothes were still in the closet and dresser, the empty hangars and spaces told that many were absent. His luggage was also gone. Grief overwhelmed me. I tried calling Michael's cell phone and discovered from the ringing that it was tucked away in a drawer in my own dresser. He was gone. I hoped against hope it was temporary, but I had no way to reach him to discuss it. I straightened my room, righting the alarm clock that Michael had knocked over in passion. That day felt like weeks ago. I looked for the house key or a note, and was washed in relief when I found neither. I sat and stared at the phone, willing it to ring. I finally retired and pulled the comforter completely over my head, lonely and very scared.