I didn’t have to read far to discover that the murder had taken place two days ago, barely a hundred yards from my apartment. The body had been found in the dense trees on the riverbank by a couple of teenagers who were exploring the trails, the way Roscoe and I used to do.

The victim’s name was Betsy Kern. Twenty-seven years old. She was an IT programmer who’d gone out for a nighttime run and never come back. The boys had stumbled upon her body the next day.

There was a picture of Betsy Kern accompanying the article. I didn’t know this woman, but I spotted the resemblance immediately.

She looked just like Karly.

I felt a strange nervousness walking into the Art Institute. Part of me expected to find a seething mass of Dylan Morans inside, the way I had in my drug-addled dream. Instead, all I found was the usual crowd of visitors. Even so, when I climbed the grand staircase to the second floor, I had a vision of jumping from the balcony that felt so vivid it seemed like more than a nightmare. I even noticed that I felt a sharp pain in my ankle, as if I’d sustained some kind of fall in real life.

Upstairs, Edgar was waiting in the gallery. He had his hands cupped behind his back, holding his cane, his pants hiked high on his waist, in the way that old men do.

“Hey, Edgar,” I said.

He harrumphed at my late arrival, and we both stared silently at the characters populating Edward Hopper’s diner. After a while, Edgar’s mood improved enough that he told me his usual story about Daniel Catton Rich, which I listened to as if I’d never heard it before. As we stood there, other people came and went to admire Nighthawks.

“So you said the police were looking for me?” I murmured when we were finally alone again. “Did they tell you why?”

“Nope. They just said that you were missing. I wasn’t worried. I figured you’d turn up sooner or later.”

“Did they say how long?”

Edgar shrugged. “Couple of days.”

My brow furrowed. “That’s all? Not like a week?”

“How could it be a week? We had dinner on Monday.”

“You saw me on Monday?”

Edgar stared at me through eyes that were sunk into the bags on his face. “You got bats in your belfry, kid? Of course I did. You brought in fried rice and chop suey from Sam Lee’s.”

I shook my head. “Edgar, Sam Lee’s closed six years ago.”

“Well, wherever, some Chinese place. I thought it was Sam Lee.”

“You’re sure it was Monday? Three days ago?”

“I know you think I’m losing my marbles, but yeah, it was Monday. Shit, Dylan, what’s wrong with you?”