March checked the time. He drummed his fingers on his leg. If he was wrong about this … well, he’d think of something else. But he didn’t have time to be wrong. The clock was ticking down to the blue moon in less than a week.
Darius checked his phone. “Second quarter. Whoa — there’s a two-point spread. Nail-biting time!”
He slithered out of the car. Dressed in navy coveralls and a hard hat, he crossed the street and disappeared down the alley.
In another five minutes, Darius returned and jumped in the car again.
“How’d it go?” Jules asked.
“Piece of cake,” Darius said. “I knocked out the cable to the whole building.”
“NCAA finals,” March said. “People are not going to be happy. Especially Oscar.”
“You know this for sure, right?” Mikki asked.
“Remember Shannon’s program? He’s from Indiana. They give you a basketball when you’re born. And Ham said he bets on big games.”
It took ten minutes for the first resident to leave. An older man in an Indiana T-shirt pushed out the door and stomped off down the street. “Heading for the sports bar on the corner,” Darius chortled.
Then a silver-haired woman burst out with her husband. Together they jogged down the block.
They waited, nervously staring at the front door.
At last a frowning Oscar Ford hit the sidewalk and walked east.
March wanted to explode out of the car after him. He wanted to hoist his anger like a sword. Slice him to ribbons with the power of his words. Murderer! Killer!
But what would he get out of that?
No. Better to destroy him. Steal his fortune.
“Let’s go,” March said. He heard his voice shake.
“Remember, if the cops come, I’m taking off,” Mikki warned in a cheerful voice. “You babies gotta run for the subway at Canal Street.”
“Always count on you to have my back, Mama,” Darius said in a sour tone.
March headed across the street with Mikki and Izzy. With a coiled rope over her shoulder, Jules crossed the street to the adjoining building. With a quick look around, she hoisted herself up on the scaffolding, then climbed like an agile monkey up through the construction site. She disappeared.
They pushed open the door.
March hugged a bag of Chinese takeout to his chest. Mikki had a six-pack of soda.
“We’re here for the party in the penthouse,” Mikki said.
“Name?” asked the doorman.
“Henneberry,” March said.
Mikki leaned against the desk. She’d toned down her look and was wearing a gray cotton sweater and dark jeans. “Louisville’s gonna smear ’em. What do you say?”
“Go, Hoosiers.”
“You’re gonna cry.”
“Mr. Henneberry, in penthouse A, has gone out for the evening.”
Mikki smacked the desk. “Get out! But he’s having a party for the game! I’ve got his son, Matt here, and my daughter, Clementine.”
“My stomach hurts,” Izzy said.
“He may be having a party, but there’s no cable in the building.”
“The Chinese food is leaking!” March said.
Darius strolled through the door in his hard hat. “Cable. Box looks fine outside. Need access to the basement.”
March saw one of the surveillance cameras showing Jules jumping onto the terrace.
“The food is leaking on the floor!” March cried.
“Mama!” Izzy whined. “I feel sick!”
“You got any paper towels? Clementine, I told you not to eat all that candy!” Mikki began to fuss with the bag, pulling out Chinese food and napkins. She waggled an egg roll at the doorman invitingly.
“That’s okay, ma’am. I already ate din —”
“I’m going to throw up!”
“Can you get the door here?” Darius asked.
“Ow!” Izzy said, picking up an egg roll. “It’s so HOT.”
“Don’t eat that, baby. It’s greasy!”
Izzy made a gagging noise.
“Door!” Darius called, impatience ringing in his tone.
The frazzled doorman came around the desk and hurried toward Darius. “Don’t let that kid throw up!”
March skirted around the desk and opened the stairwell door.
As it clicked shut behind him, he heard Izzy begin to fake-vomit. He was in.
March took the stairs two at a time. The apartments were all lofts, and double height, and the climb wound around and around. By the time he got to the seventh floor, he was winded.
There were only two apartments on the floor. He headed toward PH A.
The door to PH B flung open. A woman stuck her head out. Her glasses were pushed on top of her head. She carried a newspaper and a cup of coffee and a small gray dog.
“Caught you!” she cried.
March’s heart seemed to stop. Everything Alfie had taught him flew out of his head. Had his dad taught him what to say if he got caught by a middle-aged woman holding a crossword puzzle?
“You’re not the cable guy,” she said suspiciously.
He swallowed. “I’m visiting my dad.”
“Ah. My mysterious neighbor,” she said.
Wishing for his father’s easy charm — how many times had he seen Alfie disarm suspicion with a smile? — March smiled.
Obviously, Jules had inherited the smile. The woman was less than charmed. She frowned. “Never seen you here before.”
“I live with my mom. Uptown.” He leaned in. “She hates my dad.”
“Ha! I hate my ex, too! Your dad probably is a jerk, kid. You ever walk dogs? I’ll pay you.” The woman kissed the dog’s nose. “This is Ketzie. And I’m Martha Dermott.”
“I’m Matt Henneberry. And, no …”
“You know what’s going on with the cable?”
“No clue. Listen, I —”
“I heard your dad go out a few minutes ago.”
March started to walk backward. “Well, I’ll just wait, then. I have a key.”
He fished in his pocket, stalling. “Good to meet you, Mrs. Dermott.”
“Call me Martha, hon.”
“Martha Hon.” Go away.
“Ha!” She leaned against the door frame and took a sip of coffee. “I like you.”
He came out with the key on the I LOVE NY chain. He went toward the knob, fumbling, waiting for her to close the door. He put the key against the lock …
… and it slid in, and the doorknob turned, and the door opened.
March blinked away his surprise. He had hoped the key might work, but somehow hadn’t expected it to. That’s why they’d sent Jules in through the terrace. He waved at Martha Hon and closed the door behind him.
Jules stood waiting in the hall. “The key worked? That means that …”
“Alfie really did lead me here. He meant for me to find it.” He looked down at the key. “But I never saw any of his hideouts before.”
Her mouth wobbled, as though she were trying not to cry. “It’s not a hideout. Follow me.”
Fully stocked kitchen. Cereal. Pretzels. Macadamia nuts. Licorice.
Jules picked up the jar of nuts. “I love these.”
Freezer with ice cream, waffles, Popsicles, ravioli, frozen peas.
“Ravioli is my favorite,” March said.
“Mine, too!”
Pantry with Italian fruit sodas.
“I love grapefruit soda,” Jules said. “Do you see? It’s not Alfie’s bolt hole. It’s a home. For us.”
March opened the refrigerator. Not much. A half-full takeout container. Protein drinks. And one bottle of champagne with enameled flowers on the bottle.
“That’s Blue’s favorite champagne,” Jules said. “Was she supposed to live here, too?”
“He wouldn’t want to take her from you,” March said, shrugging.
“Come and see our rooms.”
The bedrooms were down a spiral staircase. One bedroom with books on
world history, mysteries, and fantasy. March’s room.
One bedroom with drawing pads and pencils and a turntable and a stack of old records from the 1980s.
Jules flipped through the records. “Siouxsie and the Banshees. I can’t believe it. And the Smiths! How did he know?”
“He paid attention,” March said.
“He promised us a home. And he really did it.”
“He really did.”
Jules shook her head in disbelief. “It’s almost like he’s here, isn’t it? He chose everything.” She put her hand on a wooden hairbrush. “And everything is perfect.”
“Where did he come up with all the dough?” March asked. But he already knew the answer. “He’d been pulling a lot of jobs the past two years. He’d disappear for days. Once, he was gone for two weeks. And we were living thin. That’s what Alfie called it when we didn’t have cash. ‘A temporary period of living thin,’ he’d say.”
Jules sat on the edge of the bed. “To see all this — to imagine that it could have happened … we could have lived here, with our dad … it hurts. And it makes me mad.” She punched a lilac pillow. “This is my favorite color!”
“We never had anything like this. Mostly I had a bunch of rented flats. Hotel rooms.”
“But you spent day after day, month after month, year after year with him. How many breakfasts, lunches, and dinners is that?”
“I didn’t count.” March spoke carefully. Her sudden anger was like a light switch, illuminating the pain in her eyes.
“When you’ve got a dad, you don’t have to. Did he buy you T-shirts and sneakers? Did he take your temperature when you were sick? Did he tell you he was proud of you? Did he make you laugh?”
“Yeah,” March said. He met Jules’s anger with as much gentleness as he had. “He did all of those things.”
She crossed her arms and swung one leg hard. “Good for you, then.”
“Look around. He wanted to do those things for you, too.”
“I get that. But it just makes me feel worse. Why didn’t he tell us about each other? Why couldn’t we have faced it together?”
“He wanted to protect us. I think that, after our birthdays, he would have found a way to get us here. He probably would have made it a huge surprise. Bought a red convertible and filled it with balloons. Drove us here after a swanky lunch.”
Jules gave a reluctant smile. “I haven’t let myself remember the good stuff. He was fun. Once when I was five, he came to Paris and took me out for ice cream. For breakfast. The best shop in Paris — he knew the owner, and the shop was open, just for me. Then he played the accordion. Only he was so … awful. I was laughing so hard….” She started to laugh, and then suddenly she was crying.
March picked up her hand and squeezed it.
“I just wish he’d told me. I just wish I’d known!” She cried harder, sobbing. “It’s not fair!”
“It’s not fair that he’s dead, either,” March said. “We should have been here with him. We should have lived this future. Oscar stole it. He’s still stealing it.”
She scrubbed her face with her fists. “We’re going to get him.”
“We sure are.”
They jumped when they heard a short knock at the door.
“Relax, it’s Izzy,” Jules said. “Oscar wouldn’t knock.”
They ran up the stairs and looked through the peephole. Izzy was outside, shifting her feet nervously.
“Dog food and root beer make excellent vomit,” Izzy said as she hurried inside. “Unbelievably gross. He went for a mop and disinfectant. Did you find the stones?”
March exchanged a guilty glance with Jules. “Not yet. Ready to check out his digital profile?”
“That’s what I’m here for.”
They crossed to the master bedroom. Alfie’s bedroom.
Oscar had made himself at home. Shopping bags were tossed in a corner. Inside the closet was a new wardrobe of designer clothes with shocking price tags. An enormous watch was tossed on a night table. A blue Tiffany box sat there, too. Jules opened the velvet box inside. It had once held earrings, but it was empty.
“Maybe Oscar’s got a girlfriend,” she said.
March poked his head out of the adjoining bathroom. He held up a pump bottle. “Hair spray! There’s a reason his hair is perfect!”
Izzy chortled as she roamed through his history on the computer. “He tried to erase his browsing history, but he forgot to check his backup hard drive. Amateur mistake. The guy’s been away for nine years. He needs to catch up.” She took out a flash drive. “I’m just going to copy what he’s got. I need more time to dig.”
Jules checked her phone. “We’ve got to find the stones. The play-off game is almost over. If you were Oscar, where would you hide them?”
“He doesn’t seem like the most imaginative guy,” March said.
“Right. Alfie was the mastermind.”
They started to carefully go through drawers, looking in socks and pockets.
Nothing.
“His texts show up here,” Izzy said. “One is to a phone number, but no name. A text came in this morning: ‘Interesting headline. Only four to go.’ ”
“The headline from the Post about the Widow’s Knot,” Jules said. “And ‘four to go’ must mean moonstones.”
“Oscar’s got a silent partner?” March wondered. “Did he reply?”
“He just said, ‘On ice.’ ”
“Seriously?” March and Jules asked together.
They looked at each other.
“He couldn’t be that unimaginative,” March said.
“Yeah. He could.”
March thought back to the contents of the freezer. “I hate peas,” he said.
Jules raised an eyebrow. “Me, too.”
They raced to the kitchen. March flung open the freezer door. He grabbed the bag of peas and emptied it out in the sink. Three moonstones tumbled out. They picked up the reflection of the stainless steel sink and gleamed like perfect drops of moonlight. Not quite blue, not quite white, not quite silver, but … iridescently beautiful.
Something cool and shivery tiptoed up March’s spine.
Jules gave a spurt of nervous laughter. “I don’t know why I’m so spooked.”
“Maybe because the stones say we’re going to die in less than a week?”
“Yeah. Maybe that.”
March picked up the moonstones. The tips of his fingers tingled as he slipped them into his pocket. “And now we have four,” he said.
“Three to go.” With a brisk gesture, Jules scooped the peas back in the bag and put it in the freezer.
March’s phone buzzed with a text from Mikki.
OSCAR LEFT BAR. GET OUT NOW.
Panic shot through March. “Izzy!” he yelled. “Gotta move!”
They ran back to Oscar’s bedroom.
“Almost done,” Izzy said, fingers on the flash drive.
They danced their apprehension as Izzy removed the flash drive and closed the computer.
THE SUCKER IS JOGGING HOME! GET OUT!
“We can’t go down the elevator,” March said. “He’ll see us. Stairs …”
“Will just dump us in the lobby,” Izzy said.
“Terrace,” Jules said. “We can drop into the alley.”
“Terrace?” March gulped. “Terrace? It’s … high.”
“It’s our only shot!”
HE’S AT THE FRONT DOOR
DARIUS IS HERE WHERE ARE YOU
“Just GO!” Jules yelled. “I’ll meet you out there!”
March and Izzy ran through the apartment, opened the French doors, and escaped out into the open air. A fresh breeze twirled around them from the river. Everything seemed so tranquil from up here. A few pedestrians walking along, a boat chugging by. It seemed impossible that at any moment a killer would walk in the door.
Jules ran onto the terrace, holding a cable and some fabric. “Oscar kept the rigging.” As she spoke, she looped a cable around one of the
railing posts, then clicked a carabiner on. “Aerial silk is really strong. It will hold us, but not all three at one time. March, you go first. Your weight will steady it for Iz.”
“I’m going to climb down on a scarf?” Izzy asked.
March looked down over the railing. He felt his stomach drop. “It’s a long way down.” He met her gaze, hoping his own didn’t reflect his panic. He didn’t have to tell her. He saw the same fear mirrored in her eyes. The dream. Falling.
“It’s not a cliff,” she said. “And we don’t have a choice.”
His phone buzzed.
ON ELEVATOR
U R OUT OF TIME.
Jules’s voice rattled with urgency. “Wrap the fabric around one ankle, put one foot over the other like this … and just lower yourself down. Go as quickly as you can. I’ll be last. Oh, wait! One more thing. Hold out your hands.”
March held out his hands, palms up. She took the hair spray from Oscar’s bathroom out of her pocket and sprayed his hands. “Old-timer’s trick when you don’t have rosin or chalk. It’ll help with your grip.”
He grabbed what felt like extremely flimsy fabric and lowered himself over. The fabric swung and slammed him against the building. Pure, screaming adrenaline rushed through him. The stone of the wall scraped his cheek. Like the dream.
“Gently!” Jules snapped. “Hurry!”
Even while wondering how gently and hurry could coexist, he twisted the material around one ankle, put one foot over the other, and started to slide down. He tried not to look at the brick alley below, tried not to think of his father falling, of the ground rushing up at you before you hit.
He was glad Jules had sprayed his sweaty palms. It helped him keep a grip.
He felt the pull as Izzy swung onto the material, Jules steadying her until she was ready to slide down. Izzy clung so hard that she couldn’t move.
Jules gave a quick, startled glance over her shoulder, as if she’d heard something. She looked down at March and mouthed, Oscar. He must be in the apartment now.
They had run out of time.
Panic pushed out fear. March slid down the rest of the way, jumped the last few feet, and landed hard. He felt the shock in his shinbones.