Odessa felt alternately purposeful and foolish, undertaking this strange errand. If it was a sign of desperation on her part, at least it was a private gesture, one she could disavow if necessary, with no harm done.

She exited the subway into a downpour, one the weather app on her phone had anticipated. She opened her umbrella, tucking the envelope inside her jacket to keep it dry. The rain blew in at a slight angle, battering the black nylon shield over her head, kicking up from the sidewalk to soak her ankles and the cuffs of her pants. She had a clear path, as the rain had frightened pedestrians off the streets, or at least forestalled their midmorning coffee runs or electronic cigarette breaks. As the wind lifted the rain onto her knees and upper legs, she considered waiting out the cloudburst herself, but decided she needed to get this over with. There was a dreamlike quality to her actions; she would not be released from this trance until her objective was completed. She hurried through the blowing rain toward Stone Street.

She had researched it that morning, after Linus left for the law office. Stone Street was a narrow cobblestone way dating back to 1658, the first Manhattan street paved with stone back when the island was a Dutch farming and trading colony known as New Amsterdam. (The street was then known as High Street.) Wall Street was at that time an actual wooden wall, a protective barrier at the northern edge of the settlement. There followed a centuries-long, inexorable descent into neglect. As recently as the 1970s, Stone Street had been a seedy back alley; in the 1980s it declined further into a graffiti-scarred garbage pit.

Construction then divided the street into two sections. The eastern half, only two blocks long, flanked by restored lofts and warehouses dating from the mid-1800s—after the Great Fire of 1835 destroyed most of what remained of New Amsterdam—had since been restored as a pedestrian-only thoroughfare, renamed the South Street Seaport Historic District. With granite paving, bluestone sidewalks, and streetlights resembling old gas lamps, it had been revitalized as a dining destination with outdoor tables in warmer months. International flags strung building-to-building fluttered over perhaps the most European-seeming street on the entire island.

The western half remained open to one-way traffic, but scaffolding-covered buildings and construction areas squeezed the road to a forbidding passageway. There were no pedestrians in sight, only a delivery truck at the far end of the street, its hazard lights flashing. Odessa passed 11 Stone Street and continued ahead, the next marked building numbered 19. She doubled back, scouring granite doorways for address numbers, with no luck. She grew frustrated and was on the verge of giving up—angry at herself for following the instructions of an obviously confused elderly man—when she peered skyward into the falling rain and noticed two building numbers on raised stone tiles, tucked beneath the ledge separating the street level from the second floor.