Beyond the glare of electrical lights, the sky had grown black. Thunder rolled, but the holiday mood and enormous crowds remained—it might have been the Fourth of July. She let the crowd carry her past the Wild West Show and the Ten-in-One, where people lined up five-deep for Armstrong’s Freak Show.

“Happened right where you’re standing, friend—that very spot!”

She pushed her way to the front of the crowd, to see if Red Friend recognized her. But he stared right through her. She was one of the line lice now, of no interest to him unless she was shelling out a dime.

The giant cuckoo clock started to call the hour, stopping at eight. Henry should be waiting for her near Hell Gate. She was late. She broke into a run as she neared Madame Zanto’s booth. But the arcade was so mobbed, not even her own mother would have recognized her.

Past the arcade, the crowds began to thin. No families here. These were grown-up entertainments—the minstrel show, the Woodland Cabaret, and run-down burlesque stalls.

And Max’s tent. There were more crushed cigars and cigarettes on the ground than earlier. The hand-lettered sign now read NEXT SHOW 10 O’CLOCK. He would wait till after that performance, she thought, and leave before the park closed at midnight.

She gnawed her lip, trying to steel herself. Max usually took a break around eight. He’d retire to his dressing room to remove his makeup, have a few pops of whiskey, then duck into the Woodland Cabaret for a quick dinner and a few glasses of beer. Afterward he’d wander down to Fairyland, smoking a cigarette under the trees. She’d seen him there several times when she’d returned from a delivery and hadn’t found him in his dressing room.

Her heart pounded as she drew closer to his dressing room. Would he have gone to the cabaret this evening? If he was in his room and saw her now, her plan would be ruined.

She stopped ten feet from his door. Through the window she saw a flicker of lantern light, the shadow of someone moving. She turned and slipped into the shadowy trees beside the path, crouching behind them. Waited.

Minutes passed. At last the light inside the shack went out. Pin held her breath as a tall figure in a white shirt and dark trousers emerged. No jacket, his boater pulled low to hide his face. He closed the door behind him but didn’t lock it, and walked in the direction of Fairyland, a glowing cigarette in one hand.

Pin watched until he disappeared into the woods, the yellow glow of his cigarette extinguished by the night, then sprinted toward his shack and slipped inside. The white suit hung where she’d last seen it beside the door. She reached into one pocket of his seersucker jacket—empty—then the other. The wallet holding the photographs was gone.