“People with any historical significance. I didn’t recognize anyone I knew personally. But there were a few names from the past. A minor novelist. A sculptor. A woman who was a noted engineer. I thought I’d look them up in various histories. See if they had connections to anyone in the present.”

“A long shot.” But he admired her for having a process.

“Yes. At the same time, I also started checking names from the past thirty years with what city records still exist. But I didn’t get far.”

“Why?”

Rathven leaned forward, balancing on two chair legs. “Because I came across information about one of the names on the list. Someone who lived in that apartment a long time ago.”

“Who?”

Rathven said the name. It meant nothing to him, but rang in his head like a gunshot.

“Duncan Shriek,” he repeated. “Who was he?”

“Good question. It took some research, but I thought I’d heard the name before. Not sure where. I had to borrow a couple of books to find out.”

“And?”

She seemed reluctant to answer, which made Finch reluctant, too. As if he needed her to go slow to protect himself. From a feeling that had begun to creep up from his stomach.

Tightening his chest.

She sucked in her breath, continued: “And I did—I found out a lot about him. Shriek was a fringe historian. He had some radical ideas about the Silence. About the gray caps. They wouldn’t seem radical to us now. They’d seem mostly right. But by the time anyone would’ve been able to see that, he was gone. Disappeared. Over a hundred years ago.”

Suddenly, Finch felt disappointed in her.

“What’s the connection to the here and now? How does this help me?”

Rathven leaned back again. “Take a look at the two books on the table.”

The feeling in his stomach got worse. Finch looked at her. Looked at the table. Back at her. Straightened in the sofa chair. Picked up the books gently. Felt the dust on his hands.

Turned to the title page of the first. Shriek: An Afterword, written by Janice Shriek with Duncan Shriek.

“Janice? His wife?” A strange emotion was rising now, unconnected to the feeling of dread. A formless sadness. A watchfulness.

“No,” Rathven said in a flat tone. “No. His sister.”

“Is it fiction? Nonfiction?”

“A kind of memoir by Janice with comments by Duncan. She was an art gallery owner. A major sponsor of many artists back then. She went missing, and so did her brother. Both around the same time. But it’s the other one you really need to look at.”

Finch put down Shriek: An Afterword, picked up the other book. “Cinsorium & Other Historical Fables,” he read. “By Duncan Shriek.” Felt a twinge of irritation or resentment. Couldn’t she get to the point?

“Look at the inside back cover. Of the dust jacket,” Rathven said.