She dropped the rest of the bread crumbs into the river. As the paper bag sank, the ducks scrambled to get as much as they could, whipping the foul river water into a frenzy. She walked north, left hand dangling on the railing, slapping every iron post as she passed, looking very much like a maiden waiting for her lover to come back from the sea.

I followed her. Not stopping, she said, “You’re quite certain?”

“I’d rather not get into the details, but yes. I am.”

“And the detective said nothing.”

“The police lie like they breathe: compulsively and to the benefit of no one.”

We came to the fence. Mrs. Copeland turned sharply on her heel and walked back the other way.

“You will find me the truth,” she said.

“I’ll do no such thing.”

“You forget, Miss Carr, that you are in my employ.”

“And you forget you hired me for a very different case.”

“Then you’re serious, truly serious, about this tiny mysteries nonsense?”

“I’ll refer you to another detective.”

“That won’t wash. You did far too good a job convincing me that when it comes to the Westside, you are the only one I can trust.”

“I understand you’re upset—”

“You do not understand!”

She shouted loud enough to startle the ducks. I stopped walking. I drew in as much breath as my lungs could hold and let it out slowly.

“You feel helpless,” I said. “Like a woman in bed on a cold winter morning who has kicked her blanket off in her sleep. Your eyes are shut, your feet are freezing. No matter how you arrange your limbs, you feel yourself going numb.”

“Numb—how did you know?”

“It’s how I felt when my father died.”

“Did it happen recently?”

“Two years ago.”

“Was he murdered?” She sneered, as if eager to show off her recent admittance to the brethren of those whose loved ones have been murdered.

“He disappeared. Went for a walk at twilight and never came back.”

“Did the police investigate?”

I was tiring of this. “A Westside disappearance? Has grief made you stupid?”

“Then surely you looked into it on your own. You do call yourself a detective.”

Ten months of it. Not sleeping, not eating, not crying, for the sake of answers that never came. A year wasted on misery. A case gone cold.

“Of course not,” I said. “I knew better.”

“Well, I’m . . . I’m sorry about your father.”

“Of course you’re not. You’re paying for this time—”

“I am?”