“No, but I would like to be there when they come, just in case they . . . they do find something.”

“Chester can do that for you. Watch over those men while they scoop it all up. The academy is not in session.”

“No! It’s . . . it’s all that’s left of my life in that house. I want to be there.”

Libby pats my hand. “You know all those things can be replaced. All of them.”

I nod as if she’s giving me sage advice I had not thought of before. “You’re so right. Thank you for looking into that for me.”

“It might take a day or two to schedule it,” she says. “Everything is moving so slowly. It took us days to get our debris carried away. It’s better now that more time has passed.”

“I’m so grateful.”

“Say! Why don’t you stay with us for a few days, hmm? It would be much easier for you to come back this way to check on the workers, and you’ll be here if the police have news for you.”

Despite Libby’s being the one to have gotten me inside this police station, I am grateful to know what is left of the house will soon be swept clean. I accept her offer, provided we can stop at a Western Union office so that I can send a telegram alerting my friends and Kat of my whereabouts.

As she begins to tell me she has a number of extra nightgowns, since they’d been traveling when the earthquake struck, a man in a button-down shirt, dotted necktie, and brown slacks approaches. He sits down in the empty chair next to me, and I can see that he has the piece of paper with all my answers to the officer’s questions in his hand.

“Mrs. Hocking, my name is Detective Morris. I am so sorry to hear that your husband is missing and I trust we will be able to help you locate him.”

“Thank you. I am very grateful for any help you can give me,” I say, with as much of a convincing tone as I can muster.

“I wish we could give it our full attention,” he continues, “but we are still dealing with a number of other pressing issues since the disaster here.”

“I understand. I do.”

“You’re Irish,” he says with a half smile.

“Most people mistake me for a Scot,” I reply.

“I’ve a friend from college who is Irish. How long have you been in the United States?”

“Not quite four years.”

“And where was home for you?”

“The North,” I say, and that is all I will say.

“And you met your husband here in San Francisco?”

“Oh my, you should hear how they met!” Libby interrupts enthusiastically, and I want to kick her. Detective Morris turns to her, realizing that she isn’t just some random woman sitting next to me.

“I’m Libby Reynolds. I’m Sophie’s neighbor across the street,” Libby says happily.