She picked a piece of cat hair off of her black sweater—or was it goat hair?—and flicked it out her car window while she smoked a cigarette. Henry’s cats had met her at his front door and had led her right to where their food was kept in the kitchen. A dirty coffee cup sat out next to the sink where Henry had left it. Susan fed the cats, gave them a big bowl of water, and locked up. She thought about rinsing out the coffee cup and putting it away, but decided against it. Henry would want to do that himself, when he got home.

She finished the cigarette and watched the street. Mississippi Avenue had been redeveloped over the past ten years. Boarded-up storefronts had transformed into coffee shops and record stores. Then a video store, a bar. A couple of restaurants went in after that. Some retail boutiques. More bars. The coffee shop and record store people hated the boutiques for attracting moneyed suburban types to the neighborhood for $300 pants. The boutiques hated the bars for attracting patrons who vomited on their flower boxes. Everyone complained about the new condo developments, but secretly hoped a Whole Foods would go in.

Susan liked Mississippi. It was a good place to go if you were looking for a bike helmet, a taxidermied hyena head, some sweet potato fries, and The Prisoner on DVD.

No one was doing much business today. Stores were closed. Traffic lights were out. The corner of Mississippi and Shaver had so much standing water it was impassable, and the only people around looked like they were triaging flooded basements.

Susan had parked directly in front of the Mississippi Magnolia Assisted Living Facility. This was one of the unsung pleasures of dangerous weather—it presented excellent parking opportunities. The building was rectangular and brick, and built right up against the sidewalk. It looked like someplace you’d go to file for unemployment.

It wasn’t raining at the moment, but Susan ran from her car to the front door out of instinct.

She paused inside to wipe her feet.

There was a lounge area to the right. Nothing fancy. Someone had definitely gotten a deal on used hotel room love seats. But there was a piano, and shelves were stacked three deep with books.

The reception desk was on the left.

The woman behind the desk had a sweep of officious-looking hair and was wearing a purple turtleneck and blazer. She already had her arms crossed. Susan recognized the pose. She’d seen it a lot as a teenager after she’d bleached her hair, wore all black, and carried her backpack into stores.

“I’m looking for Gloria Larson,” Susan said.

The woman’s expression didn’t flicker. She had that sort of impeccable Avon lady makeup that involved all kinds of pencils and shading. “And you are?” she said.