I’D LIKE TO SAY THAT I spent the next minutes in brave motion, certain that I could rescue Ray and myself, that Calvin’s death would be solved and his killer held for questioning, but the whole time I crawled, trying not to vomit, I wanted to give up. So I forced my mind to lemons. California lemons. Big, yellow, thick-rinded, and tart with juice. Sawing into them with a serrated knife. Making wedges for gin and tonics. Sucking on the sour, bright taste and swallowing. I thought about lemon trees. Lemon trees on my old block in Hollywood, draped in so many fruits no one would ever eat them all. The green of their leaves, their branches hung with gold ornaments.

Lemons were California to me. Condensed sunlight. Sharp, stinging hope.

I crawled in the dark toward where I thought Nelson’s office would be, slipping several times, my knee cracking the drywall. By then, my eyes had adjusted to the dimness and I could make out shapes: where the eaves crossed, the soft peaks of foam.

I kept looking back at the hole to the secret room, to measure distance. The thought of Ray lying there, waiting or dying, paralyzed me each time, and I had to shake myself free. Finally, I estimated I might be above the office, but what if the office was locked, too? I had to get to the gallery.

The change in temperature was turning my muscles to jelly. The nausea was cresting again.

Lemons, I thought again, but it wasn’t working now.

I was close. I knew it. The dust in my mouth and lungs made it hard to breathe. Sweat prickled my forehead, my once-cold face trickling with warm salt. My belly heaved. I was so tired.

Lemons. Lemon trees. Ray. Calvin. Brenae. Kim. Nikki.

None could lift me.