And then it hit me. The Bride in the Dark City. Klein’s first major film, a critically acclaimed hit that made not only his career but those of a handful of other people associated with the film. Including the leading lady who he’d gone on to cast in dozens of other productions and who, years later, couldn’t mention his name in interviews without a veil dropping over her eyes.

I dropped the card, stunned. It shouldn’t have been worse to realize Ellen had died only to protect the Lady’s organization. Even if I’d known Klein’s wife had been the one to hire us, it wouldn’t have changed what happened. But still. I would’ve almost preferred the roses be from Alibi. Because if the widow wasn’t so grieving, maybe Mrs. Klein wouldn’t have asked questions about her husband’s death. Maybe she would’ve even helped us cover it up. If that was true . . . I closed my eyes. I couldn’t let myself think it.

I wondered why Lou hadn’t mentioned it, that we’d been working for Klein’s wife. Helping her ensure a tidy divorce settlement, no doubt. She’d done this for so many years, seeing the very worst in people, bringing out the very worst in people. Maybe it no longer struck her as anything special.

I stared at the flowers, trying to think. Such gaudy mourning lilies from the devastated widow, the betrayed wife.

There was an idea.

I went back through the invoices on Lou’s desk, carefully this time. It didn’t take long for me to find the phone bill. I plucked the sheet off Lou’s desk and stuffed it in my pocket.

Later, at home at Tarantula Gardens, I’d circle the numbers that appeared most frequently and try them until I reached the Lady. I was almost positive I’d remember her voice. It was so simple, I could’ve laughed. Start with the phone records: the original clue to infidelity. Lou, I’m learning. You’ll be proud of me yet.

I folded the invoice and shoved it into my pocket, fleeing from Lou’s flowers, which leered at me like something wild and still living, petals already starting to fall in a bloody pool over her notes.

One last stop before I could go home and get ready for Carrigan the next day. The streets were whizzing by in the inky hot twilight, gray-white streaks of houses and parked cars and family units, and I was thinking, I’m not even drunk anymore, and then I was in front of Jackal’s apartment, parking the car and tripping up the stairs.

Jackal answered his door looking sleepy and annoyed—looking different, somehow. But maybe I was the one who was different. The feel of another mark on me. It had been so long.