What little furniture there is looks in order, samples of brightly colored wool crafts and some kids’ artwork hung neatly on the wall. I glance up at the open staircase and start toward it. Claudia catches me by the wrist, listens for a moment, and moves up the stairs ahead of me.

We emerge into a sparse apartment with a desk and a single rumpled cot. A dresser stands with its top drawer open, but nothing looks openly ransacked. I search the desk, find pens, a ferry schedule, a calendar with nothing written on it. In the dresser, nothing but a few pieces of clothing that look like they came from a secondhand shop. I rifle through pockets, feel along hems, check the linings. Finally I pull out the drawers, upend them one by one before descending on the cot. Empty-handed, I turn out the small cabinet in the bathroom.

Sweat dampening my nape, I retrace my steps across the floor. None of the boards are loose. With a last look around me, I hurry down the stairs to flip over the rug, overturn a chair, even stick my fingers in a pair of green woolen slippers on the wall—all the while knowing that anything Ivan would have hidden has long since been found.

I can’t breathe; the air in the old building is stifling. I lurch out the front door into the unforgiving sun.

“Audra,” Claudia says, following me outside. A breeze blows up the hillside smelling faintly of sage as bees buzz around a patch of purple flowers near the gate.

“Ivan was smart. I didn’t know him, but I could tell. He would’ve known his memory was at risk . . . found a way—”

“Audra!”

“What?”

“You’re right. Which is why we aren’t looking for anything hidden, but for what seems to be missing.”

“How was he supposed to give me anything?” I demand. “It would have to be something or somewhere he himself couldn’t have known! How could he say he was going to tell me everything? How could he?”

“Audra.” She lays her hand on my arm. “Ivan was very good. Very experienced. He was nearing the end of his age.”

“What do you mean?” He couldn’t have been more than thirty-five.

She tilts her head. “The Utod lose their gifts in their thirties.”

I blink. “You mean they can no longer—”

“Yes. Don’t speak of it here.” She gestures toward the apartment. “Whatever Ivan had for you wasn’t taken from here as far as I can tell. Which means it’s waiting somewhere else.”

“How do we know whoever killed him hasn’t gotten to it first? They have his memory!”

“There are ways. Even with computers, though it’s risky. But Ivan was old-fashioned. Which is far safer when it comes to information, if not to those involved.”

“What does that mean?”