“Sometimes people act in a split second,” Jason said. “One moment he’s on the cliff, and an impulse takes him, and he’s in the air. At that point, it’s too late to go back and stop.”

Frankie closed her eyes. She tried to summon tears, but she couldn’t.

“Do you remember it now?” Jason asked finally.

She stared into her brain and tried to draw a picture of that last morning. Even knowing what had happened, she saw nothing, and thinking harder didn’t change anything. She dipped a brush into paint, but with each stroke she applied, the canvas stayed blank. Everything Jason had told her was no more real to her than a story that had happened to someone else.

It made her think of the theme her father had chosen for their discussions that last weekend. Risk.

She’d taken a risk. Just like the patients who came to her took a risk. You can take away your pain, but once it’s done, it’s done. You’re in the air. It’s too late to go back and stop.

Their memories—those little proteins that made up a life—were gone.

“No,” she said. “I don’t remember anything at all.”

Frost awoke to music. He shifted on the sofa, which disturbed Shack, who hopped down to the carpet. Disoriented, he realized that the music was a Jefferson Airplane song. “White Rabbit.” He lay on his back, listening to Grace Slick’s angry, erotic voice before he realized that the music was coming from his phone.

He’d chosen “White Rabbit” as the ringtone for Herb, who’d partied with the San Francisco group as a nineteen-year-old in 1967. He’d seen a photo of Herb with Grace Slick and Marty Balin at the Monterey festival that June. Sometimes, his friend told stories from that summer, and Frost realized that, even back then, Herb was at the center of everything that went on in the city.

Frost rolled off the sofa and stumbled to the dining room table, where he’d left his phone. “Herb, what time is it?”

“Almost two. I’m sorry to wake you up.”

“Don’t worry about it. What’s going on?”

“Street Twitter came through.”

Frost was instantly awake. “What did you find out? Did someone see Lucy?”

“No, but a guy wearing that creepy mask gave twenty bucks to a homeless vet to pass along a message.”

“What message?” Frost asked.

His friend hesitated, didn’t answer.

“Herb? Come on, what was the message?”

“It may be nothing. This guy may just be playing games with you.”

“Tell me.”

“He said if you want to find what you’re looking for, ask Katie.”

Frost’s fist clenched. He breathed in and out. “I have to go,” he told Herb.

“Listen to me. He’s just getting inside your head. That’s what he’s trying to do.”