She held out the picture to see what he would do: remain in the doorway where he had the upper hand, or come closer, where she suspected he might feel decidedly less comfortable. He chose a position halfway, stopping to pour himself some water.

“I’ve only ever seen this reproduced in books,” she said of the shot she was holding. “It was powerful even then. But holding it is,” she hesitated, “violent almost. The girl’s stare is so forceful even though you know she had no intention of it being so. It’s like everything she’s thinking is just there, and you catch a glimpse of it, then it slips away.” She smiled. “There I go being the lecturer again. I just mean that I almost don’t want to pack this one. It’s like the picture of the child we found last night.” She stopped. “It’s like the picture of the child we found last night,” she said again.

She stared at Josh, certain he’d think she was drawing a bow so long it would stretch all the way back to Sydney. She’d dismissed the thought last night as foolish, the effect of sitting in an attic near midnight drinking cognac and discussing the mysteries of the past. But now, in the light of day, she couldn’t shake it. And nobody knew what had happened to Jessica May. So it was possible. “Maybe your photographer has Jessica May’s photographs because she is Jessica May.”

Josh nodded. “I wondered that too. I spent hours googling her last night. I’d hardly heard of Jessica May, which seems crazy because her work is outstanding. I can’t believe she was forgotten after the war, that everyone uses one of her photos but nobody remembers who took it.”

“Exactly!” D’Arcy cried. “And she wasn’t the only one. Which is why—”

“You wanted to make the documentary.” Josh finished her sentence for her. “I wish you could find a way to do it. It’s worth making.”

“Thanks,” D’Arcy said, touched by his understanding.

“And you’re right,” he said. “The photos are similar. But only if you’re looking for similarities. Here.” He handed her an envelope, in which she saw negatives, square and oversized, that must have been taken on an old Rolleiflex camera.

“There’s a lightbox in there.” Josh pointed to the salon.

D’Arcy walked through, snapping on the light, bending down with the loupe, scanning each one. They were all of the same man—Dan Hallworth—in U.S. Army uniform. A couple more of the girl, Victorine, including some at what looked like a picnic, a stream of water behind her, as well as a peculiarly twisted tree, like the ones painted into the panels in the room. A tree that looked as if it were reaching out to D’Arcy, pleading to her. She stepped back from the lightbox.

“If you googled her,” she said suddenly, to cover her attack of the heebie-jeebies, “then you must know if it is her. You would have seen pictures of her on the net. I know she’s sixty years older now but if she is Jessica May, she must look similar.”