I got up and frowned at my reflection in a small mirror over the desk. More wiry threads of white in my dark hair, deeper crow’s-feet around the eyes. Silvered is the raven hair . . . Mottled the complexion fair. Maybe Gilbert and Sullivan’s Lady Jane was more suitable for me than Neruda’s love sonnets.

Fortunately, I had my dog and my career: What more does a woman need? I settled down to the client queries, and after a time, deep in spreadsheets and a trail of strangely oscillating share prices, I forgot my bruised heart and my futile efforts to find August Veriden and Emerald Ferring.

I stretched out my hamstrings, did a half backbend in the doorway, took Peppy out to the small patio outside my room.

The rain had passed, bringing colder air behind it, cold air from the north, from home. We stood for a moment, looking at the night sky, at the North Star. I felt a longing for home deeper than my longing for Jake.

“Sniff the air, girl,” I told Peppy. “Maybe you’ll smell Mitch. I’ll smell the Golden Glow and Lotty. Any luck and we’ll be back there soon.”

The bells on the university campanile were tolling midnight in the distance. I climbed into bed, the dog curled at my side, and fell deeply asleep. When my phone rang only two hours later, I woke disoriented, thinking I was in my Chicago bedroom, and floundered in the unfamiliar space, bumping into the couch where my phone was flashing its LEDs.

“Yes?” I grumbled, rubbing my sore shin.

“Did you put up those posters?” It was a woman’s voice, hoarse from alcohol or cigarettes or maybe from screaming into phones in the middle of the night—the background noise sounded like a full-scale riot was in progress.

“What pos— Oh, looking for August Veriden and Emerald Ferring? Yes.” I sucked in a breath.

“I saw them. I saw them out where my truelove is buried. They were walking on his grave.”

Great. Another homeless drunk looking for a handout. “What did you see?” I demanded.

“A black kid was photographing the grave, and this black lady was egging him on! That ground is sacred, and they were taking pictures as if it was a football game.”

“Where?” I shouted.

“I told you. At his burial place.”

“But where is his burial place?”

“I tried to make him stop, but he wouldn’t.”

I was pulling on my jeans as she talked. “Where are you right now? I’ll bring the reward down to you.”

“The Lion’s Pride.”

I asked her name, but she’d hung up. I pulled boots on over my bare feet, hustled Peppy into the car, asked my phone to find the Lion’s Pride. Eighth Street at Rhode Island, two blocks east of Massachusetts, the main downtown street. I hadn’t gone that far with my posters.