Mercedes had been able to find only a few public records on Wilcox and, most interesting, that he participated in surfing competitions. I called the number listed for Crimson Leasing Agents & Real Estate. A receptionist answered with a crisp voice, and I said, “May I please speak to Wilcox Spiggott.”

“Might I say who is calling?”

I didn’t know if my reputation had traveled here, but I didn’t want to scare Wilcox off. “My name is Milly. I’m a journalist writing a story on surfing in the UK.”

In a moment he was on. “Wil Spiggott here.”

“Aloha, dude,” I said in surferese. “I’m doing some research on the best of Brit surfing and I’m looking for someone who’s hip to things oceanic and—”

“Who gave you my name?”

“Ahhh, well, I was at Hermosa Beach and this dude, awesome surfer, what was his name? Bitchin’ technique, really knew how to drop in late.”

“Bodhi?”

“Yeah, I think that was it,” I said, wondering where I’d heard that name before.

“Long streaked hair, killer smile, liked to skydive? That Bodhi?”

Wow, that sounded so familiar. “I’m pretty sure he’s the one. We were downing some brewskis at a bonfire and I was like, dude, do you know anyone I can interview, and he was like, dude, you totally gotta talk to Wil Spiggott.” I wondered if I could expand this narrative as a short piece with a mutated shark that would represent the offshore oil industry.

“Bodhi gave you this number?” Wilcox said.

“Uh-huh. Any chance I could buy you a drink today?”

“What do you look like?”

“No one’s complained,” I said, which wasn’t entirely true, since some people didn’t appreciate my physical and sartorial extravagance.

Wilcox said he could meet me at a pub after work. That gave me time to go to St. Paul’s Cathedral. I cried as I read the memorial to American soldiers who died in World War II, young men long gone but not forgotten.

Then I climbed to the top of the beautiful dome. I stood on the windy parapet and looked at the city below. The sun was already beginning to set and lights began to glow golden.

I wished that I was sharing this with someone else because it was too incredible just for me. I wondered what Oswald was doing now, and I tried not to wonder what or whom Ian was doing.

I went to the hotel and changed for the evening. I put on tight black jeans, black boots, and a snug cranberry cashmere sweater that I’d gotten on clearance because the shoulder seam was crooked. But the sweater was low-cut and I thought no one would notice the imperfection, especially if I let my hair fall forward over it. I wore a pink trench and a scarf that I’d knit from chunky violet yarn.