I put the gloves back into the box and kicked it hard into the recesses of the closet. My bannister. My mother’s gloves. Push against the Westside, the Westside pushes back.

That’s okay.

I push harder.

Five

I eased the front door shut, counted my breaths, and heard no sound from downstairs. Strange animal sounds came from within the park; screams of joy or pain came from beyond it. A chill spread across my back. I tried to pretend I wasn’t afraid.

As my eyes adjusted, familiar sights rose out of the gloom. Shattered benches, broken streetlights, the twisted railing looking taller than it ever had. The moon was slender as a clipped fingernail; the shadows were deep. Night was less inviting than I remembered.

My foot touched pavement. Two more steps, and my knee crashed into the front gate. I cursed, rather louder than I intended, and Hellida’s front door opened beneath the stoop.

“Is that a burglar?” she cried.

“It’s me.”

“Gilda Carr! Are you trying to shatter my nerves? Get back inside. Quick, flicka, quick!”

“I have work to do.”

“Work can always wait till dawn.”

“There’s someplace I have to go. I can only get in at night. You really needn’t worry.”

“I wish that were true.”

“Go back to sleep. I’ll be back for breakfast.”

Hellida was dressed for bed in a worn flannel nightgown, and she clutched a carving knife in her right hand. Graying blond hair fell limply across her shoulders. Her lips were pursed too tightly to scowl.

“Step inside,” she said. “I’ll have to change.”

“I don’t want you along for this.”

“You want whatever you want, and I’ll be right by your side. Shall I bring the knife?”

“I think we’ll be fine on our own.”

Forty-five minutes later, we were feeling our way through an alleyway just off Twelfth Street, and Hellida was complaining about her coffeepot.

“I’ve had it twenty-two years, and now I can’t lay hands on it. I was fixing coffee this morning, and I turned around to get the paper. When I turned back, it was gone. Perplexing. You didn’t take it?”

“No.”

“You’re certain? You didn’t sneak down into my apartment, crouch outside my door, creep across the floor, and snatch the pot while my back was turned?”

“I hope I’d remember if I had.”

“Has anything strange been going on in your part of the house?”

“No,” I said, lying all too easily.

“Just my coffeepot, then. Just one of those Westside things. I’d thought this sort of nonsense had stopped with your father. Things were always disappearing around him. Cuff links. House keys. Dollar bills. I told him, again and again I told him, ask mad questions, and madness will come home to roost.”