The house was dark. There was no car. Only an empty structure where I’d thought I’d found something worth treasuring. No. Just another of my foolish entanglements. I’d fallen for a girl who wasn’t right for me.

I stood before the door. To my left was the space where Sushmita had always parked the Mercedes. Of course, it wasn’t there. It had been confiscated by the police after Chhotu’s failed attempt on my life.

Soaked to the skin and pruny, I urged myself to get it over with. I reached up into the low eaves and felt for the key. The one Sushmita had left for me. I found it, pulled it down, and regarded it with regret. If only she were inside.

I inserted the key into the padlock on the door. The shackle popped open. I slipped it off its hasp and depressed the latch. The door yawned wide, and I entered. My butterflies disappeared.

Everything was dark. I tried the light switch. No power. Of course not. Not with the heavy rain. I closed the door behind me and fumbled for the flashlight she’d always left in the entrance. It was there.

The beam of light showed the way across the drawing room to the corridor to Sushmita’s bedroom. A thought occurred to me: What if she’d locked it? Shit. I’d forgotten she’d said she always locked bedrooms for fear the servants would steal or—what?—sleep in her bed? So I was relieved to find that the latch turned and opened on command.

Her scent still lingered in the air, and I inhaled it with great lungfuls of longing and regret. Two, then three deep breaths before my nose acclimated itself to the essence, and the sensation was gone. I aimed the light at the bed and gazed at her pillow. The linens hadn’t been changed, I was sure, since she and I had last slept there. The room was undisturbed, which was the motivation for my visit.

The thing about living in India with household help is that there’s always an extra pair of eyes to search for missing things.

Except when there are no extra eyes.

I dropped to my hands and knees and aimed the light under the bed. And there it was. Sitting innocently under a coat of dust was my missing roll of film.

CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

WEDNESDAY, SEPTEMBER 9, 1975, 8:37 P.M.

I got to my feet and examined the film. Everything seemed in order. It had lain undisturbed for nearly two months under the bed where it had fallen from my pants—the sound I’d thought was my belt buckle hitting the floor. I returned it to my pocket and made for the door.

A light blinded me, and I stopped in my tracks.

“Danny Boy?”