EPILOGUE

On the fourteenth of March, Barrett, Sally, and I ride in a cab through a fog that smells of verdant earth and chimes with birdsong. Our mood is somber; no one feels like making conversation. Yesterday Barrett told Sally and me that he’d found Lucas Zehnpfennig, but this isn’t how we had hoped the search would end.

Out of the fog materializes a tall stone portal—a large arch flanked by two smaller ones, surmounted by a cross. Their black iron gates stand open, and we ride in through the middle entrance, along a quiet, empty road, beneath trees whose branches are hazy green with new foliage. Crocuses and daffodils bloom in the grass around rows of tombstones. Ghostly stone angels spread their wings, clasp their hands in prayer, or weep over graves. This is the City of London Cemetery. When we reach an area of small, modest gravestones, Barrett tells the driver to stop. Fresh, dewy spring air veils us as we climb out of the cab. Our footsteps squish the damp ground as Barrett leads Sally and me to a gravestone that’s far from the road.

“Here he is,” Barrett says.

The gravestone is a plain, rectangular slab, crusted with lichen and green with moss, its base covered by dead weeds. I can barely see the inscription: “Lucas Zehnpfennig, 1840–1880.” By a cruel trick of fate, his ultimate destiny caught up with him before I could.

“When I couldn’t find any trace of him in town, I checked the death records,” Barrett says. “He was easy to find because he has an unusual name at the end of the alphabet.”

Sally crouches by the grave and lays down the small bouquet of lilies she brought. She has a kind heart, and Lucas is my blood kin, no matter what he’s done.

“How did he die?” I say.

“He was run over by a train,” Barrett says.

I briefly close my eyes against the vision of an oncoming train, the whistle blaring, a shadowy figure of a man standing on the tracks, and the violent impact. No matter that I believe Lucas murdered Ellen Casey and my father took the blame, it’s a terrible way to die. And I’m sorry he’s dead, for he was my last link to my father.

“How did it happen?” Sally asks.

“I wish I could tell you,” Barrett says. “The police record says it was a foggy night. The man driving the train didn’t see anything before it hit Lucas. And no witnesses came forward.”

We’ve reached a literal dead end in the search for Lucas, but my father is still at large, and my investigation of the hangman’s murder taught me that there are many paths to the truth. This moment, this grave, has just opened up another path of inquiry.

“We’ll get to the bottom of it all.” My voice has the weight of a promise, an oath. I stand shoulder to shoulder with Sally. We’ll walk the path together, and when we finally catch up to our father, he can stop running from the past, and Sally and I will find resolution if not peace of mind.