Mara printed the photograph at 2:13 in the morning. There was no practical reason to do it. The file was already saved on her laptop, her phone, a cloud folder, and two different backups she had created after spending twenty minutes imagining every way impossible evidence could disappear. Even so, she loaded a sheet of photo paper into the printer and waited. The machine worked in silence in the empty office. First came the dark background of the gallery. Then Theodore, in profile, one hand in his pocket. Finally, the woman beside him. Mara. Eleven years younger. The black dress. The ring she didn't recognize. And that expression. That smile bothered her most. Mara knew her own face better than she wanted to. She knew how she smiled at clients, photographers, colleagues, and people she deemed it socially convenient not to offend. The woman in the photograph wasn't being polite. She was happy. Mara picked up the sheet by its edges. Theodore was saying something close to her ear. The photographer had captured the next moment, when Mara began to laugh and turned her face toward him. Neither of them seemed aware of the camera. She took the photograph home. At three in the morning, it was still on the kitchen table. At four, Mara still hadn't slept. At five twenty, she gave up. She made coffee. Sat down in front of the photograph again. —Let's try again. The woman in the print didn't cooperate. Mara opened a blank page on her laptop. At the top, she wrote: FACTS. The word offered a certain comfort. Below it: 1. Theodore Marlowe existed in this reality. 2. He died four years ago. 3. I appear in a photograph with him from eleven years ago. She stopped. It was tempting to write I knew him. But that still required an assumption. She continued: 4. I don't remember the event, the trip, the dress, or him. 5. Theodore claims he knows me. 6. Theodore appears when I'm dying. 7. Cloe couldn't see him at the bar. 8. Between deaths, he exists in a place outside normal realities. The word realities remained on the screen. Days ago, Mara would have rewritten it three times to find a less absurd formulation. Now there was no point. Another world. Theodore had confirmed it. Not regression. Not resurrection in the same life. She was dying in one place and waking up in another. Mara added: 9. He's dead here. Then: 10. Touching him triggered memories I don't recognize as mine. The last sentence remained unfinished. She didn't know whether those memories were hers. She only knew that she had felt a hand against a face, a closeness she couldn't interpret as casual, and, far too briefly to understand, something resembling a funeral. Mara closed the document. It was still six in the morning. At six seventeen, she reopened it. She searched again: Elias Mercer photographer Paris Delacroix exhibition This time, she wasn't looking for the photographs. She was looking for the man who had taken them. ________________________________________ Elias Mercer was seventy-two, had a website that looked like it hadn't been updated since the creation of the internet, and possessed an inexplicable fondness for photographing black-and-white cats. Mara discovered all of this before seven. She also discovered that he had spent much of his career between London and Paris, photographing exhibitions, musicians, private events, and rich families who apparently preferred calling parties cultural salons. Mercer's last public exhibition had taken place five years ago. After that, almost nothing. One article mentioned vision problems. Another said he had partially retired and moved back to London. Mara found a business address in Clerkenwell. The phone number didn't work. She found an email address. She began to write. Dear Mr. Mercer, She deleted it. Too formal. She tried: Good morning. My name is Mara Vale, and I'd like to speak with you about a photograph you took in Paris eleven years ago. Better. She attached the image. She stared at the send button. If Mercer recognized Theodore, it would help. If he recognized Mara, even better. If he said he'd never taken that photograph... Mara hadn't decided what she would do. She sent it. The reply arrived nine minutes later. Miss Vale, Yes. That was all. Mara frowned. She typed: Yes to what, exactly? The reply came almost immediately. Yes, I remember the photograph. Mara felt her entire body go alert. She wrote: I'd like to speak in person, if possible. This time, he took three minutes. Today, 3 p.m. Bring the printed photograph. Below that was an address in Bloomsbury. Mara replied to confirm. Then she stared at the screen. The man hadn't asked who she was. Her name was in the email, naturally. But he also hadn't asked why an unknown lawyer wanted to discuss a photograph taken eleven years ago. Mara reread the first reply. Yes. There was something irritatingly confident about that word. It reminded her of someone else. —Great. Another one. ________________________________________ Sunday lunch began at twelve oh six. Mara arrived without her laptop. Her sister opened the door, looked at Mara's hands, then at the hallway. —Where is it? —What? —The computer. —At home. —Are you armed? Mara stepped inside. —You're insufferable. —It's hereditary. Her mother appeared from the kitchen carrying a serving dish. —She came? —Physically—her sister replied. —I'm still checking spiritually. Mara took off her coat. —It's always nice to know I was expected. —You usually cancel when something comes up at the office—her mother said. —Nothing came up today. It was almost true. A retired photographer who had possibly known a dead man didn't exactly qualify as a professional emergency. Her mother came closer and kissed her cheek. —You look tired. —Does everyone in this family comment on my appearance before saying hello? —Hello. You look tired. Her sister laughed. Mara realized she missed this even though she hadn't lost it. Maybe that was one of the cruelest effects of the realities. Before, family gatherings had been routine. They could be postponed. Canceled. Rescheduled. Now every lunch came with the awareness that it might not exist in the next world. Her mother set the food on the table. —Your father called. Mara sat down. —You? —Unfortunately, the divorce didn't render his phone incapable of finding my number. —Fifteen years, and there's still hope. —Don't start. Her sister poured wine. —He wants to talk to you. —About what? —I don't know. Unlike your professional life, I don't conduct preliminary interrogations. Mara reached for the bottle. Her sister pulled it away. —You're driving. —One glass. —You gave me a twenty-minute lecture about that last month. —I was wrong. Her sister stopped with the bottle in midair. Her mother did too. Mara looked from one to the other. —What? —You said you were wrong—her sister replied. —And? —Twice in the same week. Mara felt an uncomfortable pang. —What was the first time? —Wednesday. About that restaurant. Mara didn't remember the conversation. One more thing from that life she hadn't lived. —Was it really that bad? —Horrible. —Then I take it back. Her sister laughed and poured a little wine into Mara's glass. During lunch, Mara left her phone in her bag. It was difficult. At twelve forty, she wanted to check whether Mercer had sent another message. She didn't. At twelve fifty-five, her mother began telling a story about a woman named Judith who was apparently involved in a territorial war over parking spaces. Mara listened to the end. At one twenty, her sister mentioned a job interview. Mara almost asked about salary, company stability, benefits, financial history, and growth prospects. Instead, she said: —Do you want it? Her sister stared at her. —The job? —Yes. —I think so. Mara picked up her glass. —Then I hope you get it. A pause. —Who are you? —You're using up a lot of material today. —I'm worried. Her mother looked from one to the other. —Maybe you're finally maturing. —At thirty-one?—her sister said. —A little late. Mara drank. She didn't explain that, in a way, she had been thirty-one for four deaths. At two, she stood. Her mother immediately made a disapproving face. —The office? —No. —Then where? Mara picked up her coat. —I'm going to talk to a photographer. Her sister smiled. —That's even more suspicious. —About work? —No. Now both of them were looking at her. Mara sighed. —Are you two incapable of respecting any kind of privacy? —Yes—her mother replied. —Absolutely—her sister added. Mara opened the door. —I'll see you later. Her sister spoke before she could leave: —Is it about Theodore? Mara stopped. Her mother immediately became interested. —Theodore? —Thanks—Mara said. Her sister smiled. —Always. Mara left before the family investigation could begin. In the elevator, she realized she was smiling. It didn't last long. A dead man was waiting for her at three. ________________________________________ The address led to an old building on a quiet street in Bloomsbury. There was no sign. Mara checked the number twice before pressing the intercom. A male voice answered: —Miss Vale? —Yes. The door unlocked. She climbed three flights. Elias Mercer was waiting in the hallway. He was thin, with completely white hair, round-framed glasses, and a blue shirt open at the collar. He looked less fragile than the recent photographs suggested. He looked Mara up and down. Without hiding it. —Come in. —Good afternoon to you too. —It's too late to pretend this is a social visit. Mara stepped inside. The apartment also served as a studio. Photographs covered nearly every wall. Some were enormous. Others were small and haphazardly framed. Portraits of famous people shared space with empty streets, children, train stations, couples, and a surprising number of cats. —You like cats. —People lie when they see a camera. —Cats don't? —Cats don't care enough. Mara was beginning to like him. Mercer pointed to a table. —You brought it? She took the photograph from her file folder. He didn't take it immediately. He sat down. —Put it there. Mara laid the image in front of him. Mercer adjusted his glasses. —Paris. —Yes. —Hotel Lambert. —The caption said the Delacroix exhibition. —The dinner was afterward. He leaned closer to the photograph. —2015. —October fourteenth. Mercer looked up. —You did your homework. —It's a professional disease. —Lawyer. Mara wasn't surprised. —You researched my name. —I read your email. —That usually doesn't reveal someone's profession. Mercer smiled. —Marlowe liked lawyers. Mara felt a subtle pressure in her chest. —You knew Theodore? —Know is an ambitious word. —How many times did you meet him? —Maybe twenty. That was more than she had expected. —Over how long? —Fifteen years? A little less. —Were you friends? Mercer made an amused face. —Marlowe had many acquaintances and very few people I'd call friends. I certainly wouldn't promote myself to the second category. Mara pulled out the chair opposite him. —What was he like? —Does that question usually come before or after someone tells me why she's investigating a dead man? —You can answer first. —Definitely a lawyer. Mara crossed her legs. Mercer studied the photograph again. —Smart. Funny when he wanted to be. Exhausting when he wanted more. He knew how to talk to anyone without seeming to fake an interest. —That sounds like a compliment. —For the most part. —And the rest? —People who pay too much attention always discover things other people would rather keep hidden. Mara thought of the man between worlds. —Did he do that? —Constantly. —His profession? Mercer laughed. —If you find out, tell me. —You knew him for fifteen years and didn't know what he did? —I knew what he said he did. —What was that? —Consulting. Mara grimaced. —That doesn't mean anything. —Exactly. She made a mental note. —Family? —I never met any. —Close friends? —Some faces appeared more than once. —Names? Mercer leaned back. —Miss Vale, I've photographed thousands of people. Some memories age better than others. —Theodore aged well. —He was hard to forget. The sentence weighed more than it should have. Mara looked at the photograph. —And me? Mercer fell silent. She noticed the change immediately. —You remember me. There was no answer. —When I sent the photograph, you replied in nine minutes. —I was awake. —And you didn't ask why I wanted to talk about it. —You attached an old photograph. —Even so. Mercer took off his glasses. He wiped one lens with the tip of his shirt. Mara waited. She had learned in court that silence made some people more uncomfortable than questions. Mercer didn't seem uncomfortable. —He called you Miss Vale. Mara didn't move. The temperature in the room seemed to change. —Theodore? —Yes. —Are you sure? Mercer put his glasses back on. —There are certain things a person remembers because they were repeated too often. Mara tried to control her voice. —I was at that dinner? —You're in the photograph. —That's not what I asked. Mercer sighed. —Yes. —Did we arrive together? —I don't remember. —Did we stay together during the night? —For much of it. —How did we behave? —Like two people. Mara lost patience. —Mr. Mercer. —Elias. —Elias, I need you to be specific. —Why? The question came without any provocation. Mara opened her mouth. Closed it. She had prepared explanations all the way there. None seemed reasonable in front of someone who had actually been there. —Because I don't remember. Mercer tilted his head. —That night? —Him. The man went still. —Nothing? —Nothing. Mara pointed to Theodore in the photograph. —Before a few days ago, if someone had shown me this face, I would've said I'd never seen this man. Mercer didn't answer. —I'm serious. —I imagine so. —Why? —Because you were never good at pretending to be confused. Mara felt her pulse quicken. —Have we spoken before? —Once. —Once? —Maybe twice. —About what? —Photography, mostly. —Did I like photography? —Not particularly. —Then why would we talk about it? Mercer smiled. —You liked arguing. That, at least, remained the same. —What did I say? —That photography was a socially acceptable way to steal context. Mara went quiet. She could have said that. Easily. —Was I wrong? —Profoundly. —Great. —We ended the conversation without reaching an agreement. —That also sounds plausible. Mercer looked at the image again. —You were different. Mara straightened. —How? —You were younger. —Besides the obvious. He took his time. —Less tired. The answer irritated her for reasons she couldn't name. —And Theodore? —The same. —Eleven years ago, he looked the same as he did when he died? —Not exactly. —But? Mercer pointed to the photograph. —Marlowe always looked a little older when he thought no one was watching. Mara thought of the sadness she'd seen three times before he spoke. —Did you think we were a couple? Mercer raised an eyebrow. —Finally. —Finally what? —The question you've been avoiding since you walked in. Mara didn't like him quite as much anymore. —It's an objective question. —It didn't seem like one. —Were we? Mercer picked up the photograph. He studied it. —I don't know. —You saw us together. —I saw a lot of people together. —Theodore was whispering in my ear. —That happens at noisy parties. —My hand is on his arm. —That happens too. —I'm wearing a ring I don't recognize. —That happens less often. Mara stared at him. —You're enjoying this. —A little. —Why? —Because now I understand why Marlowe liked irritating you so much. The blood seemed to stop in her veins. —He did that? —With admirable dedication. Mara could almost hear Theodore's voice: It's not the first time. —What else did he say about me? Mercer noticed something in her face. The humor faded. —Very little. —But he said things. —Sometimes. —What? —That you were brilliant. Mara waited. —That's all? —No. —Go on. —That brilliance and common sense were completely independent qualities. Mara closed her eyes. —Of course. Mercer laughed. —He also said you were the only person who could turn dinner into an interrogation without losing your appetite. —That sounds more plausible. —And once he said you'd win an argument against God and leave irritated because He hadn't presented sufficient evidence. Mara couldn't help it. She laughed. It was short. Surprised. And ended too quickly. Because the joke crossed into a region of memory that felt painful. Theodore telling a story. A restaurant. Her rolling her eyes. Something about God. Nothing fully took shape. Mara pressed her fingers to her temple. —Are you all right? —Yes. —You don't look it. —I've heard that enough today. Mercer studied her. —How did he die? The question changed everything. The man looked away. Mara noticed. —The memorial doesn't say. —No. —The newspapers don't either. —The family preferred it that way. —You know. Mercer stood. —Coffee? —No. —I'm having some. —Elias. He walked toward a small kitchen. Mara followed him. —How did Theodore die? —You said you don't remember him. —And does that change the question? —Perhaps it should. —Why? Mercer poured water into a kettle. —Because some things are hard to forget for a good reason. Mara felt irritated. —That's something he would say. —I knew him long enough. —I didn't come here to hear versions of answers. —No. You came looking for a specific answer, and you're bothered because you still don't know which one. That made her stop. Mercer switched on the kettle. —I don't know exactly how Marlowe died. Mara assessed the sentence. —Exactly. —I know where. —Where? He opened a cabinet. —London. —That narrows it down a lot. —Hampstead. Mara remembered the old address. —At the house? Mercer didn't answer immediately. —Near it. —Accident? —That's what I was told. —By whom? —A mutual acquaintance. —Name. Mercer looked at her. —No. —Why not? —Because I haven't decided whether helping you is a good idea. Mara gave a humorless laugh. —You called me here. —Curiosity is an old flaw. —Then satisfy it. —Mine is already satisfied. —How? Mercer put coffee into a press. —I wanted to know whether you truly didn't remember him. Mara went completely still. —Why would that matter to you? —Because Marlowe thought it would. Silence. The kettle clicked off. Mercer poured the water as if he hadn't just changed the nature of the conversation. Mara took a step toward him. —Explain. —I can't. —You can. —No, Miss Vale. I can talk. Those are different things. She immediately hated the phrase. —What did Theodore say? Mercer braced his hands on the counter. He seemed older now. Not physically. Tired. —He asked me to do something many years ago. —What? —Not to publish certain photographs. Mara looked toward the room. At the walls. Then at the printed image she'd left on the table. —Mine. —Some of them. —Why? —He didn't explain. —When? —After Paris. —How long after? —Days. Mara moved closer. —Theodore asked you to remove my photographs? —He bought the rights to some images and asked that others not be included in the public archives. —That's extremely specific. —Marlowe usually was. —Did I know? Mercer hesitated. The answer came before the words. —No. Mara felt anger. Immediate. Familiar. —He did it without telling me. —As far as I know. —Why? —I don't know. —You never asked? —I did. —And? Mercer finally smiled crookedly. —He said that in some stories, being remembered by the wrong people was more dangerous than being forgotten. Mara didn't like the sensation that traveled down her spine. —Those were his exact words? —It was eleven years ago. Don't ask me for a sworn transcript. Mara returned to the table. She picked up the photograph. —Then why does this image still exist online? —Because it wasn't one of the ones he bought. —He didn't know about it? —He knew. —Then why did he leave it? Mercer walked slowly to a bookcase. —That's a better question. Mara watched as he removed a gray cardboard box. There were dozens of labels along the side. Dates. Places. Names. Mercer placed the box on the table. PARIS — OCT 2015 Mara's heart sped up. —Negatives? —Contact sheets. Some prints. He opened it. The smell of old paper escaped. Mara stood beside him while Mercer leafed through envelopes. He found one. DELACROIX / LAMBERT He placed it on the table. Inside were contact sheets with dozens of tiny photographs. Mara recognized Theodore almost immediately. In some, he was alone. In others, he was talking. Then she appeared. One image. Two. Five. Mara pulled out the chair. There were more photographs of her with Theodore than the online archive suggested. In one, they were arguing. She recognized her own expression: chin raised, hand open, probably in the middle of a sentence she considered irrefutable. Theodore looked amused. In the next, Mara had her back turned. Theodore didn't. He was looking at her. Not at the photographer. At her. Mara spent longer than she wanted to on that image. There was no way to interpret it as casual. It wasn't explicit desire. It wasn't a romantic photograph. It was worse. Familiarity. As if looking at Mara were something Theodore had done so many times he no longer needed to think about it. —Did he always look at her like that? Mercer didn't answer. Mara turned. —Elias. —I photograph people, Miss Vale. I don't write diagnoses. —You're avoiding the question. —I'm being kind. She turned back to the images. Another one. Mara and Theodore leaving the hotel. Someone else between them. A car. Then nothing. Mara turned the page. Some frames had been crossed out in red pencil. A small X in one corner. —What does that mean? —Don't publish. —Theodore's request? —Yes. Mara leaned closer to one of the pages. The marked images were mainly the ones that showed her face clearly. —He was hiding me. —Maybe. —Don't say maybe. —Would you prefer I invent certainty? That silenced her. Mara breathed. —Is there more? Mercer kept turning pages. Then he stopped. His hand remained on a brown envelope that didn't match the others. Mara noticed immediately. —What's that? —Nothing I intended to show you. —Then you shouldn't have stopped with your hand on it. Mercer looked at her. —You're still the same. —You already said that. He removed the envelope. There was no date on the front. Only two words written by hand. M. VALE Mara didn't recognize the handwriting. —Is that yours? —The label, yes. —The contents? Mercer didn't answer. Mara held out her hand. He kept hold of the envelope. —Elias. —First I need to ask you something. —Ask. —Do you believe Theodore Marlowe is dead? The question was absurd. Mara answered anyway. —Yes. —Are you sure? She thought of the Thames. The impossible space between worlds. His fingers wrapped around her hand. —Not in the way you mean. Mercer watched her. —Interesting. —My turn. Why did you ask? He let go of the envelope. Mara took it. —Because Marlowe left this with me three months before he died. She looked at her own name. —For me? —That's what he said. Mara's heart began to beat faster. —Why didn't you send it? —There were no instructions to send it. —Then what were the instructions? Mercer took a moment before answering. —Something close to: “If Miss Vale ever shows up wanting to know why she was in Paris, give this to her.” Mara felt a shiver. —He said my name? —He did. —Miss Vale. —Exactly. The same form. Even eleven years ago. Even before he died. Even in that place between worlds. Mara ran her finger over the envelope. —Did you open it? —No. —Never? —I'm not old enough to start opening mysterious dead people's mail. —That makes no sense. —At seventy-two, I've discovered I'm not obligated to. Mara turned the envelope over. It was sealed. No special stamp. No symbol. Just old paper. Something thin was inside. Maybe a letter. Maybe a photograph. —How long has this been here? —Four years and three months. Mara thought of all the times she could have looked for Theodore. She hadn't. Because she hadn't known he existed. Until she died four times. Until she heard him say her name. Until she found a photograph of a life she didn't remember. —Why did you agree to keep it? Mercer went to the window. —Because he asked me to. —Is that usually enough for you? —No. —Then? The man looked at the street below. —The last time I saw Theodore Marlowe, he looked like a man trying to organize a house before a fire that only he could smell. Mara said nothing. Mercer continued: —Some people make a will when they think they're going to die. Others call their families. Marlowe spent a few months giving things away, settling accounts, looking for people. —You think he knew he was going to die. —I think he was certain. That sentence found an immediate place among all the other impossibilities. —And no one stopped him? Mercer turned his face. —You weren't there. Mara felt as if she'd been struck. —What does that mean? —I don't know. —Elias. —I mean exactly that. You disappeared from his life before he died. —How do you know? —Because for years he would show up occasionally, and somehow your name would appear along with him. Then it stopped. —Did he say we broke up? —He never said you two had started. —Then what did he say? Mercer hesitated. —Once I asked about you. Mara tightened her grip on the envelope. —And? —He answered: “Miss Vale is exactly where she needs to be.” —That means absolutely nothing. —I said the same thing. —And what did he say? Mercer smiled tiredly. —“I sincerely hope so.” Mara looked away. The envelope seemed heavier. —Anything else? —About you? —About him. Mercer thought. —Yes. —What? —He remembered everyone's names. Mara looked up. —What do you mean? —Waiters. Drivers. Assistants. Security guards. People he'd met once five years earlier. Marlowe had an irritating memory for names. A memory of the café came immediately. Sam. The feeling that Theodore would have known his name. Mara shivered. —Why? —I never asked. Mercer shrugged. —Maybe courtesy. Maybe obsession. Maybe he was afraid of forgetting. Mara looked at the envelope. Theodore. A dead man. A man who crossed through the moments when she died. A man who apparently cared too much about names. And she was living through a story in which, with every death, parts of her own existence stopped happening. Coincidence was beginning to seem like a word for people without imagination. —Can I take the contact sheets? —No. —I can buy them. —No. —I can digitize them. —Yes. —Every page. —The relevant ones. —I decide what's relevant. —Not in my house. Mara looked at him. —You're really difficult. —That's what Marlowe said. —About you? —About you. She almost smiled. ________________________________________ Mara left Bloomsbury at 5:42. The envelope was inside her bag. She hadn't opened it. It bothered her deeply. She passed two cafés and a square before admitting she was stalling. She found an empty bench. Sat down. Took out the envelope. M. VALE Four years of waiting. Maybe more, depending on when Theodore had written whatever was inside. Mara ran her finger beneath the flap. Stopped. It was ridiculous. She had opened confidential documents under court order. Interrogated executives accused of fraud. Spent three deaths running toward things everyone else tried to avoid. And now she was afraid of an envelope. Not of what it contained. Of the possibility of recognizing something. A sentence. The handwriting. The way Theodore chose his words. Her body had recognized him before her mind did. Mara wasn't sure how much more of herself was hidden behind that door. Her phone vibrated. Sister. Mom wants to know if Theodore is hot. Mara closed her eyes. She replied: I hate you both. The reply came: So he is. Mara laughed. Two people sitting on the bench beside her looked over. She put away her phone. For a few seconds, she simply watched London. A man walked a dog too small for the coat it was wearing. A bus turned the corner. Someone was carrying flowers. A teenage girl argued with her mother. Nothing extraordinary. No vision had arrived. Not that day. Nor the day before. Mara realized she was beginning to wait for them the way one waits for a bomb. Maybe there wouldn't be another one. Theodore had said he needed to figure out why it had started. He hadn't said it would continue forever. Maybe the cycle had changed. Maybe talking to him had altered something. Mara refused to turn hope into a hypothesis without evidence. But she let it exist for a few seconds. Then she opened the envelope. There was a photograph. Only one. Mara took it out. It wasn't Paris. She didn't recognize the place immediately. A house. Elegant interior. Low light. Theodore sat in front of a fireplace with a glass in his hand. He looked as if he'd been photographed by accident. Or without permission. In the armchair beside him, someone sat. Mara. She was barefoot. Her legs were folded beneath her on the chair. An open book rested in her lap. No formal dress. No event. No distance. This wasn't a photograph of two people who had met at a party. It was a photograph of two people accustomed to sharing silence. Mara turned it over. There was writing on the back. This time, she immediately recognized that it wasn't Mercer's handwriting. The letters were elegant, slanted, too precise. A single sentence: For when the evidence seems more reliable than memory. Nothing else. No signature. Mara read it again. Then a third time. Her heart began to race. Theodore knew her profession. The way she thought. He knew she would look for evidence. Maybe he even knew Mara wouldn't trust her own memories. She turned the photograph faceup. Something caught her attention. On the table between the two armchairs was a black notebook. Small. Closed. Mara brought the photograph closer to her face. A word had been handwritten on the cover. She couldn't read all of it. Only a few letters. ...MES Mara frowned. She took out her phone. Took a picture. Zoomed in. The image lost definition. She tried adjusting the contrast. Nothing. She returned to the physical photograph. And then she understood. The letters weren't missing. Part of the word was covered by a glass. What remained was enough. NAMES. Names. Mara remembered Mercer. He remembered everyone's names. She remembered the feeling in the café. Remembered Theodore saying Miss Vale as if that way of addressing her had crossed through the years. Mara turned the photograph over again. Below the sentence, which had seemed to be the only thing written there, were much fainter marks near the lower edge. Almost erased. She held it up to the light. There was more. A second message. Short. Written so lightly it only appeared when she tilted the paper. Mara managed to read it. Don't look for the notebook. She went still. Then she let out a quiet laugh. —You really didn't know me as well as you think you did. Because until that moment, Mara Vale hadn't known a notebook existed. Now she had no intention of stopping until she found it.