Jilly says that’s because we must have known each other in past lives, “You know, like when I was a teapot and you were a kettle. Or there was that time we were both mice in a Victorian travelling circus. Ah, those were the days, Geordie, me lad. It was all cheese and applause.”

The memory brought a bittersweet warmth, but it also reminded me of what I was supposed to be doing: concentrating on finding Joe. Because if we didn’t find Joe, then we might never find Jilly and then these memories would be all I’d have.

I needed more than memories.

I needed her.

I tried again, but if anything, I was getting worse at bringing Joe clearly to mind. He became this elusive butterfly, always hovering just a few steps away, no matter how carefully I approached. This happened again and again until I started to get frustrated, which is pretty much the last thing you want to do in a case like this.

Frustration, worry, anger . . . these are the things that totally muddy our thinking. Not that I’ve ever been a clear, linear thinker, which is another reason that Jilly and I get along so well because she’s anything but linear.

Jilly . . .

I went back to trying to hold onto Joe in my mind. I remembered him coming to visit me one time at the apartment I had on Lee Street. I’d lived there pretty much forever—this was before the disaster of my moving to L.A. to be with Tanya. There wasn’t much to the place, but then I’ve never needed a lot. If you need proof, consider how long I’ve been staying in Jilly’s studio loft and how little of myself you’ll find in there. Most of my things are still boxed up and stored in the basement of my brother Christy’s apartment building.

But back at the Lee Street apartment, I’d taken the time to make the place look nice. I had posters and art on the walls—mostly courtesy of Jilly and our various artist friends. There was a stereo set up with all my albums organized in old milk crates. Brick and plank bookcases for my tune book collections. And then all the instruments, of course, leaning in corners, hanging from the walls, the better-quality ones stored safely away in their cases.

It was easy to call the place up. I could remember the smallest details, from the row of figurines and knickknacks lined up on the windowsill and the odd patchwork quilt on the bed, to the way the red neon light from a sign on the street outside crept in under the bottom of my blinds. That night . . .