“Would you like to look through more of our materials? If you give me a little time, I can pull additional folders—we do have a decent collection from the war, Camp Boardwalk and all that. Not as many of the Thomas England Hospital, but you might be interested to see them.” I checked the time. I was due to start my shift in half an hour. I felt on the verge of something, though. I thought that if I could only spend the day searching, thinking, locking myself away in the quiet upper room of the archives, then I would be able to make something out of it, inch toward a narrative. There were so many issues plaguing the city: corruption, addiction, recession. But I still thought that the paintings would help. They could show people what we had survived before.

“I need to get going to work, unfortunately. But maybe I can come back the next time you’re here.”

“If you want to email me any of those pictures, I can also try to do some more matching today.” She wrote her email on a Post-it, rubbed her hands together. “It’s exciting to have a project. I have to say, these archives are underused, and it breaks my heart. There’s a lot to see here.”

“Thanks, Sue. I’ll see you on Monday.” As I made my way downstairs, I thought about how the whole city felt that way. A lot to see and no one willing to look. Except for this painter, whoever they were.

I had my hand on the door when I heard a man’s voice behind me.

“Excuse me, but did I hear you talking about some paintings?” he asked. I turned to see him, in his mid-thirties, tall, dark-haired. He hadn’t been a part of the group waiting at the front door in the morning—he must have come in when I was with Sue.

“Yes.” I tried to keep the annoyance out of my voice. I didn’t want to have to explain the paintings to this eavesdropper. Words didn’t do them justice.

“It’s just that … well … my grandparents have always had a few of them in their house—paintings of Atlantic City—and I wonder if maybe they were done by the same person. Portraits. Mostly.”

I was, despite myself and my fear of getting my hopes up, intrigued. “Like what?”

“Someone on the boardwalk. Another one of a politician in a sort of weird old hat.”

“Where did they get them?”

“You know, I’m not sure. But I would be happy to ask.”

“I don’t suppose you have any photos of them.”

“No, but I can take a few.”

I tried to temper my optimism—it seemed too convenient, too much of a coincidence. And yet, what if this was it? A missing link? The thing I needed to see?