“Yes, absolutely.”

“Then why don’t they have a record of him?”

“I think they’re lying.”

She threw up her arms. “Why would they lie about my grandfather?”

“I don’t know.” The car stopped. “I’m at the station. We’ll talk more when I get back.”

“Creighton…” She hesitated. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. See you in three hours.”

I boarded the train and took a seat, contemplating what had happened at the hospital. My mind kept returning to one name: Bryson Nichols. If there was a conspiracy to cover up Ray’s stay at the hospital, Bryson Nichols was behind it.

Abby looked exhausted and was already dressed for bed when I arrived at Lauren’s. We went to the couch, and I recounted the details of my encounter at the mental hospital. She laid her head on my lap, and I stroked her hair.

“Creighton, what do we do now?”

“I was thinking…” I’d formulated a plan while I was on the train, but now I couldn’t recall what it was. My headache, which had disappeared for a while, had now returned with force.

“Why don’t we talk about it in the morning?” I suggested.

“I found out something today,” she said. “I looked up Ray’s address on the Grid. Do you think we could go by there tomorrow? I’d like to see where he lived.”

“That would be fine.” I stroked her hair a few more moments. “Abby, are you still on your fast?”

“The food part.”

“Is it doing any good?”

She looked up at me. “I don’t know yet.”

We got up, took something for our headaches, and went to our bedrooms.

Ray Caldwell had lived in an old-style two-story red brick house. The street was deserted, as were most streets anymore. We got out of the car and walked up to the house. Abby examined every detail as if she could somehow connect with her grandfather by taking in the exterior of his home. Maybe she could.

We heard footsteps behind us and turned. An older man pushing a wheelbarrow filled with flowers stopped on the sidewalk in front of Ray’s house. He looked over at us. “Good morning.”

“Good morning,” we both answered.

“Haven’t seen you folks here before. But I’m only here once a week, I guess.”

“Do you work for the city?” I asked.

“Oh no. I’m Dr. Caldwell’s gardener, you might say. At any rate I keep up the outside of the place for him.”

“Even since he died?” Abby’s words were tender.

He hung his head slightly. “Yes, a crying shame, a good man like that dying at such an age. I thought I’d tend to the place until they sold the property, but I don’t think they’ve even listed it for sale. Are you folks looking it over?”

“No, not exactly.”