She was using 100GB of a 120GB hard drive—although at least 30G of that seemed to be porn. Didn’t need to know that. It’s like finding out your parents had sex. Totally fucking creepy. Literally.

He double-clicked a bitmap file labeled Gate and an almost familiar pattern of swirls and equations appeared on the screen. It seemed to be the same pattern he’d glimpsed on her computer at the studio. It was definitely not the same pattern written on the blackboards on the other side of the gate, even given that part of it had been covered by . . .

“I don’t think you should be looking at her private things.”

“You’re right.” He closed it out, grateful to have the memory interrupted. No doubt she had a copy of the gate file on the laptop. Probably why she’d taken the laptop with her.

Her wallpaper was a sunset over water. Yeah, great. Very helpful. As far as Tony was concerned, all water looked the same.

“What are you doing?” Tucked in behind his left shoulder, Julian seemed to require a play-by-play.

“She obviously likes this picture, right?” He clicked through the control panel and into design to get the jpeg’s name, then into Arra’s photos. “I want to see if it’s local.” There were two dozen similar pictures of sunsets in the folder labeled Kitsalano Point.

“Kitsalano Point, it’s that part of Kits Beach just west of the Maritime Museum, that part that pokes out into the bay.”

Yeah, that would be why they call it a point. Couldn’t be Sunset Beach which was maybe six blocks away. It had to be across the fucking creek. Still, it was a place to start.

“Are you going to look for her there?”

“Thought I might.”

“Do you want a drive?”

Okay that was unexpected. “I thought you had to wait for the locksmith. President and everything . . .”

Julian dropped his attention to the dog. “Right.”

“Look, if you boys want to go off together, I’ll stay and wait for the locksmith.”

“No, that’s okay, it’s my responsibility.” Shifting Moira to his other arm, he held out his hand. “Good luck, Tony. I hope you find her.”

“Yeah. Me, too.” For all his affectations, Julian’s handshake was surprisingly firm. Must’ve missed that one when he was filling in the stereotypes form.

“Wait!” Vera grabbed at his arm. “Your name is Tony?”

“Yes . . .”

“Tony Foster?”

“Yes . . .”

“How silly of me.” Her giggle suggested they should agree with the assessment. “I heard you tell the police your name, but it never sank in. If you’re Tony Foster, Arra left you a letter. I found it when I went to feed the cats, but then this whole burglary put it out of my mind. It’s in my apartment, I didn’t, of course, have a chance to mail it. Is it short for Anthony?”

“Is what?”