HOURS AFTER DINNER, Lamont was still energized. But he was the only one. Maddy was in deep dreams on the sofa with Bando curled around her feet. Jessica had handed Lamont a pile of blankets and a pillow before retiring to the tiny alcove that she called her bedroom. The long talk had worn her out, she said.
Jessica had been so curious about Margo, and Lamont had been eager to share their whole history. He told her how he and Margo had teamed up to fight crime and corruption in the 1930s. How their work relationship had evolved into romance. And, of course, about that horrible night. At least as much as he could remember.
“She was with me,” Lamont told Jessica. That much he was sure of. “I had her in my arms!” And then, “Wherever she is, whatever happened to her, I have to find her.”
“You will. I know it,” Jessica said. She had sounded so certain. Just before turning in, she had squeezed Lamont around the shoulders.
“For now,” she had whispered, “I’m just glad Maddy found you.”
The apartment was quiet now, except for the muffled sound of voices coming through the wall from next door. Lamont couldn’t make out the words, only the mood—weary and hopeless.
He saw his tux hanging on the outside of the bathroom door. He felt the cuffs and lower legs. Still damp. Then he noticed a small lump in the right pocket of his tuxedo pants. A coin? A key? He reached in. As his fingers touched the object, his heart started to pound.
Slowly and carefully, he pulled out the object—an exquisite diamond ring.
Lamont fell back against the wall. Ever since he’d been revived, he’d been running on pure instinct and filaments of memory. But this was something else. In one second, a wash of feelings came back, and this time he remembered every detail.
The ring had come from his favorite Forty-Seventh Street jeweler, an expert who had vouched for the stone’s cut, clarity, color, and carats. Lamont remembered putting the black velvet box in his jacket pocket before he left for the restaurant, and then realizing that the shape of the box would be a dead giveaway to somebody as observant as Margo. So instead, he’d slipped the bare ring into his pants pocket, within easy reach when the perfect moment arrived.
Lamont’s mind flashed to Margo’s face—first radiant and smiling, then pale and terrified. He saw a blur of toys on a ceiling, plates on a floor, stunned waiters, and the elegant maître d’. The flashes were fleeting, but they left Lamont perspiring and short of breath.
He tried to focus his mind by concentrating on the present. Where he was right now, at this moment. He stared across the room at Maddy, her blond hair strung across the sofa cushion. He heard Jessica snoring from the next room. Then his mind started tumbling in crazy directions again. Why was Jessica so interested in Margo? It was almost as if she’d known her too. Then, the craziest thought of all: Was it possible that Jessica was Margo? There was some resemblance in the features and in the personality. By some miracle, had she somehow been revived before him? Had she been waiting for him all this time? That would explain the difference in years. Was she toying with him?
No. Not possible. He would recognize Margo when he saw her. Even a very old Margo. He had no doubt of that.
Lamont began to pad around the apartment slowly, trying to absorb everything. The detective in him took over. The Shadow in him. He ran his hands over shelves and walls, as if searching for a secret passage. He moved silently, still in his bare feet. When he looked out the window down onto the street, he saw shapes moving along the sidewalk in the darkness. To the north, he saw small patches of bright lights—the enclaves of people who were rich and privileged. Like he used to be.
As Lamont crept around the partition into the tiny kitchen, his hip bumped into a battered credenza with a single center drawer. He wrapped his fingers around the worn knob and pulled the drawer open, inch by inch. Inside, he saw a corner of pale yellow under a jumble of small white candles. He moved the candles aside to uncover an envelope—so old that it looked ready to crumble.
Maybe it would give him some clues. Anything was better than nothing.
Lamont lifted the envelope and pressed the sides to widen the gap at the unsealed end. He held the opening up to the light and peered inside. The envelope held a single thick sheet. Lamont slid it partway out, and then dropped it as if he’d been burned.
It was a photograph of Margo.