Fifty-Nine

A fever came over me and leveled me. For a night and a day, I did nothing but sleep, sometimes eat. I had no choice. I often had strange dreams when I was in the thick of a Lyme flare-up, but I didn’t think this was Lyme.

I imagined the fever cleansing me, getting rid of my unhealthy impurities. On the last day of my fever, I dreamed about Justine.

She was here in this room with me, looking twenty years younger.

“Why don’t you take the guest room? Sleeping on the chaise in the library can’t be comfortable. You need to take care of yourself so you can get the book done.”

I was stunned. She appeared to be there, right beside me. She reached down and brushed my hair off my forehead. “Poor girl,” she said. Comfort filled me.

“You’ve taken a long rest,” she said. “You’ve used your smarts to figure everything out. I’m proud of you.”

Her soft features morphed into something almost animal-like. “Now, get up and do something!”

A cold whoosh of air pressed on me and I woke up shivering. I picked up the blanket from the floor and wrapped it around me. It was just a dream. Justine wasn’t there. It was just my subconscious talking to me in the form of Justine. But that’s not the impression that lingered in the air, a tiny shift filled with mist and memory. Gram was right when she’d said grief does strange things to people. I could have sworn Justine was there and we were talking. Gram swore she’d seen my grandfather frequently.

“Is it a trick of the mind? Or just something we don’t understand?” she’d say, shrugging.

I lay on the chaise, thinking about everything Justine had said in my dream. Perhaps it was time to move into the guest room. But then again, if Judith had her way, who knew how much longer I’d be allowed to live in the apartment? I guessed it didn’t matter. I should venture out and explore the apartment in any case. I hadn’t been in half of the rooms, I was sure.

I wrestled myself out of the blanket. My skin had cooled, which meant my fever broke. I made my way to the kitchen and brewed coffee. As the scent filled the room, I continued down the hall and opened the door across from Justine’s room.

In the center sat a king-size bed covered in a deep blue silky spread. The room bore all the hallmarks of the rest of the place. Art deco lamps, lighting fixtures, and dresser and chairs. I opened the door to the closet and slipped in. It was bigger than my room on Cloister Island.

The room needed a good dusting and vacuuming, and stale Cotillion wafted here and there. Justine had been in this room countless times. It was her home.

I flitted across the floor feeling lighter, as if my fever had shed a part of me that had been weighing me down.

I moved into the kitchen and made myself some coffee and checked my phone. Three calls from Den, eight calls from Kate, one from Gram, and one from Natalie.

I called Kate first.

“Why haven’t you answered your phone? Den told me what happened. I was sick with worry,” she said.

I drank my coffee. “Calm down. I was sick, had a fever. I’ve just been sleeping.”

“Sleeping? All this time?” Her voice rose a decibel or two.

“That’s right.”

“Are you okay? Are you getting sick? I’ll be right over.” She hung up, not giving me a chance to explain.

Next I called my gram and explained to her what was happening. I should have explained everything from the beginning, but I hadn’t wanted to worry her.

“So you have the ring?”

“Yes, I do.”

“It may not be hers, you know? That’s going to be difficult to prove. Documents can be faked. So can jewelry.”

As usual, Gram hit the nail on the head. All the documents in my possession were copies. I wasn’t sure I could rely on them to tell the Harlow story. What the book called for was an addendum or an afterword, along the lines of “This is what may have happened to the ring, and this is what may have happened with Marino Bell and Jean Harlow’s mother.”

Next, I phoned Den.

“Hey,” he said. “How ya doing?”

“I’ve been sick. Have you caught our guy yet?”

“No,” he said after a few beats. “It might be ready to go cold soon. We’re using way too many resources, ya know?”

A roaring sensation filled my chest and spread through my body and into my skin and throat. “Do what you want, Den. I’m planning to call Lucille and tell her it’s a go.”

“What’s a go?”

“We’ll announce it, have a press conference, with or without the help of the NYPD.”

“Now, hold on—”

“I’ve played by your rules most of the time. But it’s not working. We need to turn the tables. Lure him out of hiding. It’s the only way to do it.”

I surprised myself by the decision, formed there and then. It was as if I’d made it sooner and my mouth was now ready to say so.

“It’s too dangerous. I can’t let you do this.”

“I’ll ignore what you just said about letting me do this. For now. We’ll talk about that later. My publisher will hire a good security outfit. It will be fine. I will be fine. I promise.” With those words, confidence and calm spread through me, even though fear dwelled deep down in my bones. This was something I would never have dreamed of doing before Justine’s death. But then again, I’d imagined none of this at all.