And so, after a late lunchtime, I left the library and walked to Skyler’s apartment, first passing the art gallery and peering in the windows to make sure he was there. He was talking to a sleek white-haired couple, all three giving the appearance of settling in for a nice long chat about art.

Perfect. I upped my speed and arrived at the house a few minutes later. The wood door of the downstairs apartment was painted a color somewhere between green and brown, the paint peeling to reveal a grimy white beneath.

My knocks didn’t summon anyone, either the first, second, or third time I tried.

Well, rats.

Sighing, I retreated toward the sidewalk, thinking about how to schedule another visit.

“You looking for Bob?”

I jumped. Next door, a sixtyish man in a patched canvas coat was pointing the handle of a leaf rake at the house I’d just left.

“Because he’s gone on a long haul,” Rake Man said. “Taking hardwood lumber to West Texas, I think it was. Won’t be back for three days.”

“Oh. That’s . . . too bad.” I thought quickly. “But maybe you can help me. I’m really looking for information about the man who lives upstairs. The place I work is very particular about who they hire”—true enough—“and I was hoping to learn more about Skyler’s background.”

Rake Man laughed. “The Ellison kid? He’s trying for a real job? Who would have guessed. What kind of place do you work? Oh, you can’t say, I get it.” He winked. “Ellison. What a name, eh? Makes you think of money. From what I’ve been able to figure, he grew up with cash coming out his ears. But then he got the art bug. Told his parents he wanted to be an artist. They said, sure, do what you want, but you don’t get any of our money unless you give up the art thing and go to business school like an Ellison should.”

I blinked at the torrent of information. “Skyler walked away from his family?”

Shrugging, Rake Man said, “All I can say for sure is he’s lived here about two years, and I’ve never seen him have any visitors or go anywhere overnight. What does that tell you?”

Mostly that Skyler’s neighbor was paying a little too much attention to the comings and goings of other people.

“Thanks for your help,” I said.

“No problem. Not sure I’d hire the guy, but hey, maybe he’ll be fine for wherever it is you work.”

I thanked him again and started back to the library, thinking about Skyler and his family and how hard it must have been to break off from everyone and everything you’ve ever known, to be estranged from the people who raised you. How hard, how impossible, it must be to create anything resembling a family support system.

“Minnie Hamilton.”