SEVENTY-EIGHT

CLARE

BY the next afternoon, we were packed up and driving back to the city. The stormy weather continued to plague us through the rural South Fork, all the way across the suburban sprawl that composed the rest of Long Island.

As twilight descended, we hit the Queens Borough boundary and were soon approaching the densely populated urban neighborhoods near New York’s East River. Despite the gloomy weather, once I saw the Manhattan skyline, shining through the murky shadows, I was filled with a sense of well-being. It felt like a homecoming, even if I couldn’t recall every memory about this particular home.

I was also feeling good about Mike Quinn—in more ways than one.

During the long drive, we agreed to set our personal issues aside and simply enjoy each other’s company. As Quinn’s wiper blades continued their steady beating, we reviewed the facts of the Annette Brewster case.

I knew Quinn was dubious of my “hoax” theory. But he’d gamely agreed to join me in speaking with Annette’s niece. Earlier today, he’d arranged a meeting with Mr. Dante, using some cagey text messaging.

I need your help. I want to meet the woman running your art show, Tessa Simmons. Can you introduce me and our mutual friend?

Mr. Dante texted back that he didn’t know Tessa personally, but he would find out what he could and text back again soon with a plan to meet, which he did.

Once we got there, I was prepared to take the initiative, shake the woman’s hand, and ask her point blank if Annette Brewster was with her old flame, James Mazur, in Paris.

Of course, if I was wrong, and Tessa had something to do with Annette’s disappearance, then seeing her again might trigger some of my buried memories.

This could be dangerous, I had to admit.

If Tessa was guilty of masterminding her aunt’s abduction to speed up her inheritance of the Parkview Palace (or the fortune it would create upon its sale), she would likely recognize me, even in disguise.

But a certain NYPD detective would be there, too. He was my backup. And I trusted him. Now all I had to do was get to the Gypsy hotel, a destination that seemed in doubt.

“Mike, did you miss the turn to Long Island City?”

“What makes you think I’m lost?”

“The skyscrapers. They’re suddenly everywhere. Did we cross the bridge? Are we already in Manhattan?”

“Look at the signs.”

We were still in Queens, but this part of the borough, near the river, looked very different from what I remembered. A few days ago, driving with Matt, I had noticed the rising skyline as we crossed the bridge. But here at street level, the visual impact was much greater, almost overwhelming.

In a little more than a decade, this ignored industrial waterfront neighborhood had become a sleek, bustling extension of Manhattan’s Midtown—with a short subway ride in between.

I was awed by the ultramodern structures around me, some branded with the names and logos of corporations I recognized (and others I didn’t). Tall, needle-thin apartment buildings rose up among them, like stalagmites with windows.

“I can’t believe the transformation. Did I wake up in some kind of Blade Runner future?”

“Depends on which Blade Runner you’re talking about.”

“There’s another one? I’ll have to rent it.”

“You mean stream it.”

“Eesh. Change the subject.”