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  The Independent was housed in a modern glossy building resembling a sausage sheathed in copper on Quantum City Avenue. Sawyer led me through a doorway into the back, past a patio under a canopy where two lonely employees inhaled their tobacco fix.

  I followed him down a hallway toward a roomful of cubicles. A pretty girl in one of them, black hair, stylish glasses, waved at Sawyer as he passed by. He waved back. A pulse of jealousy throbbed briefly in my chest. Of course girls would like him. He’s available and not gay. At least, I thought he was available. Worse, I felt old suddenly. I didn’t like it.

  “So where are you living now?” I asked as we entered a cubicle at the end of the room and Sawyer sat down at the computer.

  He shook his head as the computer booted. A wave of relief and interest pushed the jealousy away. “I’ve got a condo out on Mines Road. I want to get a house, but just can’t afford it yet. Agnes has her own room, but she hates where we live.”

  I wanted to ask him about why Agnes didn’t want to live with Dom, just to hear his side of it, but I thought that would be rude.

  Making me wait in a corridor of cubicles, he disappeared, then reappeared a few minutes later from a cubicle four doors down and waved me in.

  It belonged the woman with the stylish glasses. We had introductions but I instantly forgot her name. When she asked me what we were looking for, I said, “Jeffrey Nash. Start with the stories about the death.”

  Stylish-glasses pouted, murmured how sad. Of course she had heard all about the baby, the trial. People in Quantum City still talked about Mae Worthington and whether she really did it or not.

  Stylish-glasses worked at lightening speed, scrolling through pages of articles and sorting searches. Sawyer pointed at the screen.

  “But look at this.” We leaned in. “Dixie Nash died of cancer. Three years ago. Wait a minute.” She was at an Ohio newspaper site. “She had two more children die of SIDS. There was an investigation. She went to trial, but they found her not guilty. Jesus, that’s disgusting.” Stylish glasses read avidly as I thought about Dixie Nash and tried not to hate her. She existed in another sort of hell altogether, I imagined. Belief and imagination would put her where she belonged. And she would have nothing to say about it.

  “She would never admit to any wrongdoing.” I could understand how everyone would hate her. “Even if she were alive, she would deny the whole thing.”

  Making sympathetic noises, Stylish-glasses raced through several more pages, then stopped. “There you go.”

  Sawyer leaned into the screen, picked up a post-it, wrote something down. He glanced at me, eyes glinting. “You want to drive to Pacifica?”

  “Now?” We could get back before dinner. And I could invite him and Agnes over. But I worried that visiting Jeff Nash would do no good at all. Jeff Nash would never admit to us that he suspected his wife all along. He needed his denial to feel safe.

  As I started to nod, thinking a long drive with Sawyer in his BMW would be a very nice thing, my cell phone rang. Sawyer looked at me, and I wasn’t going to answer it, thinking, who could be bothering me now, but as he watched me curiously, I pulled it out of my purse.

  A phone number I didn’t recognize. The voice on the other end was someone I was not prepared to hear.

  Chapter Sixteen

  A Delphine

  “Hi, Annie. How are you? I heard you were back in town.” Dominique Delphine’s voice was every bit the same as I remembered, sweet, breathy. I wondered if she spoke this Barbie-like speech to her patients.

  “Dominique. What a surprise.” I kept my eyes on Sawyer’s face. He pressed his lips together; a faint flush traveled up his neck.

  There was a pause. I heard her speaking off-side, giving an obscure order to some nearby assistant. I waited wordlessly.

  “Sorry about that. Listen. I would really like to see you. Old times, and all that.” She halted, told someone to wait a moment. She sounded so polite, I wanted to puke. Sawyer kept staring at me. “Can you come into the City sometime to meet?”

  “How about this afternoon?”

  She hesitated. I knew I had caught her off-guard. I continued, “How about our favorite San Francisco destination? You know the place. Around 4?” I raised my eyebrows at Sawyer, who looked stung, but shrugged. I was sorry for it, but I needed the ride and needed to see Dom.

  To my amazement she agreed. “4 pm it is. See you then. I’m so looking forward to it.” She was gone.

  Sawyer stared at the computer screen. Stylish-glasses looked a little embarrassed, but was too polite to ask questions. Swallowing, Sawyer turned to leave, and I got to my feet, thanked Stylish-glasses, and followed him back to his car.

  “I’m sorry.” I stood near the door as he opened it for me. “But there’s a big problem between her and Ivy and I think I can maybe make it go away. We were going anyway . . .”

  “It’s OK.” He held the door, not looking at me. I could see from his face that it wasn’t OK.

  He brightened a little when I asked if we could blow by the house and pick up Zoe. She was thrilled at the chance to ride into San Francisco with us, top down on the Beamer, and insisted on wearing her jester hat of yellow, blue and red points. I grabbed jackets, and off we went.

  Sawyer was not a respecter of speed limits, I was relieved to see. Traffic was light and we whizzed over the Bay Bridge in just over an hour. A fluffy roll of fog hung behind the City hills, mists curled around the Golden Gate Bridge towers, but the air above us was clear, the bay a silver sheet studded with sails.

  As we skirted the southern reaches of the City, heading toward Pacifica, Sawyer glanced at me. I waited for the inevitable question, tried to smooth my hair, which, as it was cut Pixie short, probably looked as if I had stuck my finger in a light socket.

  “I’ve been thinking a lot about the other night.” Sawyer watched the road through a pair of expensive sunglasses. “Wondering how whole hours of my night sort of disappeared. I know I got a bump on the head, but I never really heard a good explanation about why we ended up in the old Sanatorium trying not to get eaten by a pack of ravening hounds.”

  As we passed under a puff of fog, I rubbed my upper arms. Zoe hummed behind us, in her own world, I hoped, not really listening to the boring adults up front. “You know how crazy Ivy is. She thought she saw Jack driving out there and had to follow. You were in the back seat, still out cold.”

  He glanced at me, and I knew he had big doubts about the veracity of my statement. But as he said nothing else for several minutes, I had to believe he was accepting my explanation for the moment. He said, “So now what is going on between Dom and Ivy? What else is new? They’ve always despised each other.”

  I had to give him some kind of rationale. After all, Dom was his ex-wife. And Agnes’s mother. “Ivy thinks Dom thinks she stole something from her. Ivy is crazy, as you know.” I sipped on a bottled water that sat between us in the cup-holder. “So, I said I would try to find out what is going on. I meant to call Dom, but she seemed to want to see me and as we were coming anyway—”

  “I got it. I got it.” His lips thinned again, and we were silent, listening to the GPS inform us which way to turn and how far to Jeff Nash’s little hillside stucco bungalow.

  Strung on the tawny ridge like chunks of pastel chalk, square houses flanked the climbing streets. Jeff Nash lived in a pastel blue home with a shiny pickup in the driveway. We left Zoe in the car, playing a game on my phone.

  Jeff Nash answered the door right away, surprising both Sawyer and me, as if he were expecting us. I recognized him; he didn’t seem to have aged a day. Barefoot, he wore a t-shirt and jeans, a cell-phone clipped to the belt. Sawyer had told me he had become some sort of contractor after quitting his job at the Lab as a building engineer.

  As he looked at us, suspicion lowered his eyebrows. Maybe he thought we were missionaries.

  Finding my voice from somewhere, I said, “Mr. Nash, I’m Annie Novak, and this is Sawyer Webster, and we wonder if y
ou would help us with a mystery.”

  His eyes grew narrower. “Nope, can’t help you.” He started to close the door.

  Sawyer stepped closer, but didn’t touch anything. “For your son, Mr Nash. He would want the truth to be known.”

  Jeff Nash continued to close the door, and I thought this chance was gone forever. We would never be able to prove that Dixie Nash had murdered her own son, and Mae was innocent. We wouldn’t be able to stop the headlong rush into hysteria that was the FOD.

  The door stopped an inch before closing. Then, Mr Nash pulled it open again, and nodded us in.

  His living room was clean, spotless, a bright Persian rug on the floor, a vase of flowers in the front bay window. Almost too picturesque, pristine, orderly. Sterile. Not a sign that anyone really lived there. Certainly not children.

  We stood in the living room and he turned to face us. “I know you, Annie. I remember you. You were Mae’s friend.”

  I nodded. The way he said it, with softness, almost caused my throat to spin closed, squirt tears into my eyes. I couldn’t speak.

  Sawyer intervened. “Mr. Nash, we are so sorry to bother you. But, there’s this situation.” He looked at me, urging, I thought, for me to take over.

  “Yes,” I knew it was best to tell the truth, or at least the truth as Sawyer understood it. I explained the FOD, and how this mystery about Mae needed to be deflated somehow. Luckily I had the sense to stop before I mentioned anything stupid like Now that your wife has died . . .

  When I finished, Jeff Nash stood quietly. He had always been a quiet man, friendly, and he used to brighten whenever he saw Mae. I remember feeling a little jealous whenever we would run into him and he seemed to speak only to her. I suppose he had a crush on her. Who wouldn’t?

  He still hadn’t asked us to sit down, but I doubt I would have wanted to. “It’s strange, how the universe works.” He folded his arms, wouldn’t meet our eyes. “I had another dream about Justin last night. After, you know, all that, I didn’t dream about him for years. But lately— ”

  I knew why. My seeking Justin in Phantom City sent a wave through the veil, like a breeze in a lace curtain, along with a triggering memory flowing straight to Justin’s dad.

  He stuck his hands in his armpits. He was not a tall man, but he looked fitter than I remember, as if he had been working out. “I met a very nice woman. We get along so well, not like—her.” He couldn’t say ‘Dixie’. How painful it must be to think about his former wife at all. “And I’ve been wrestling with things, you know. What to tell her about my past. She doesn’t know anything about that.”

  A longer silence followed. It was hard not to speak, but Sawyer gave me a glance that told me to wait. And then it came.

  Excusing himself, Jeff Nash moved past us, went upstairs. I couldn’t tell if we had been dismissed or not, but something told me to wait. Looking at me curiously, Sawyer shrugged, and I lifted a finger, telling him not to go.

  We stood there an uncomfortably long time. I almost thought I was wrong, that Jeff Nash was done with us, unable to throw us out, hoping we would just disappear like all his painful past. Then, I heard him coming down.

  He handed us a CD in an envelope. “It’s all here. I’m sorry Mae got blamed. I should have said something then, but I couldn’t believe it. I just couldn’t believe any mother could kill her own child. And Dixie was, or seemed, to be such a good person. She bought him cute outfits, she took great care of both of us. I couldn’t accept it for a long, long time. Please understand.”

  We nodded, and he almost smiled, his blue eyes desperate. We followed him to the door. Jeff Nash stuck out his hand, Sawyer shook it, then me. But he held on to mine, and gazed at me, almost as if he knew what I was and what I had done to bring us to our door. “Annie, I didn’t think Mae had done it. Really I didn’t. When I heard she’d died, I fell apart for a while.”

  “Are you going to tell her, your girlfriend?” I felt Sawyer look at me. It was a very personal question, but I had to know.

  Mr. Nash gave me a shrug and a smile. “I don’t know. I think so.” If she loves me, she’ll forgive me. Those words went unsaid, but we all were thinking them.

  Back in the car, we sat a moment while I told Zoe how it went, showed her the CD. She nodded solemnly. It was a lot for a nine-year-old to handle, but she seemed thoughtful about it. Sawyer said nothing as he started the car and we drove back into the City. He said nothing all the way to the Mission District.

  We were hungry, and after a meal of tapas and gazpacho at a 16th Street eatery, we walked to Mission Dolores. The white stucco walls glared so brightly in the sun they caused our eyes to burn.

  Inside the Mission San Francisco de Asis, we left behind the city din and came into complete silence. A handful of other tourists wandered about, staring at the redwood beams and wooden columns painted to resemble marble. I led Zoe and Sawyer, who decided to come inside after all, past carved pews and wooden crucifixes to a doorway which led into the Cemetery Gardens.

  Roses encircled a statue of Father Junipero Serra. The high walls of the cemetery hugged grave markers as old as 1830 and huge spiked agaves. Zoe wandered down a flagstone path to inspect the stones and read the names. Sawyer and I sat on a bench under the Father’s watchful gaze, the odor of roses sharp in our nostrils. The garden seemed thinner, drier, as if it had recently fallen on hard times. Dom, Mae and I visited this cemetery every time we came to the City. Mae and I introduced it to Dom, who seemed to count it as something entirely hers after that.

  “I hope this exonerates Mae.” Sawyer turned the disc over in his hand. “I just hope it will be enough to break up the suicide club.”

  Nodding, I had no doubt this would affect the hold those girls had on one another. I thought of Agnes, her powerful personality. She was the one who would need the most convincing. But I hoped also it wouldn’t backfire, make Mae into an even greater martyr. But at least Mae herself would be appeased. Maybe that in itself would be enough to take the steam out of the FOD.

  Sawyer shaded his eyes to look around the garden. “I’ll take it straight to the paper as soon as we get back.”

  Silence held us for a few moments. I saw Zoe’s hat disappear behind a dark cypress as she walked the cemetery paths.

  “Mae never talked about this stuff with me,” Sawyer said at last. “I was always a little afraid of her. I was always amazed she even talked to just me, when we were alone.”

  I had to agree with that. Every one was a little afraid of her. “She only spoke about it to me once, a few weeks after it happened. She said, ‘every poet must have a tragedy in their lives.’ She was very dramatic about it then, but I never saw her cry or worry. After the charges were dropped, it was as if we had made a silent pact never to bring it up.” I picked up a yellow rose petal and put it to my nose. “I don’t think she ever wrote a poem about it. I never saw one. There aren’t any in Meredith’s book.” I thought about the composition book that Sawyer had right now, wondering what was in it.

  As soon as we fell silent and the cemetery looked content in the sunlight, a tail of fog whisked overhead, enshrouding the light. It was like a touch of fear, trailing its finger along my shoulders. I sat straighter, looking for Zoe.

  I couldn’t see her. The entire cemetery dimmed as another larger block of fog ballooned overhead. Standing up, my heart shuddered as I called her name.

  “Zoe!”

  Beside me Sawyer grasped my hand. “I saw her a minute ago. She was just over by that angel.”

  Pulling away from him, I ran down a flagstone path and rounded a corner. No one stood in the path, not even another tourist. Panic tightened my throat, but I forced a deep breath. I know she’s alright. She’s just out of sight for a moment.

  A soft breeze carried the scent of sage and a perfume I couldn’t identify, probably from one of the many shrubs crowding the gravesides. I hurried down an aisle between graves, Sawyer behind me, and we headed toward the only exit through the gift shop.
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  Just as I was about to burst through, I saw from the corner of my eye Zoe’s crazy hat lying on a tomb near a thatch structure. My chest in a vise, I stood paralyzed with fear. Sawyer slowly walked toward the cenotaph and picked up the hat. My hand curled around my throat, keeping back a scream.

  A quick, black shadow skimmed the corner of my eye. Turning, I looked toward a stand of palms, shade, and saw them. The scream came out as a short moan. Sawyer stared at me, then he too saw what I saw, and his expression hardened.

  Zoe stood near a grouping of small thatched huts, replicas of Indian homes. Beside her, in a long black coat, stood Dominique Delphine.

  Her black hair braided down her back, Dominique faced away from us, bending over Zoe, who was showing her something in her guidebook.

  My heart punched into my throat. Why did I bring Zoe here? I’m a prize idiot. “No.”

  Sawyer glanced at me, and I realized I had said it aloud. “Yeah, that’s her. I think I’ll wait over there.” He crunched away toward the gift shop.

  Shaking, I moved toward them, my knees as weak as if I were approaching a cobra in order to put it back into its basket.

  “Didn’t you hear us calling?” My voice sounded as if I had swallowed rusty nails.

  Straightening, Dominique turned, looked at me. And smiled.

  “No,” Zoe said, sounding annoyed. “I went inside to buy this book. It explains who all these people were. Did you know the first governor of California is buried here?”

  I held out her hat. “You forgot this.”

  Her face changed, not at the prospect that her mother thought her kidnapped, but at the thought of losing her precious hat. “Oh thank you. I’m glad no one took it.”

  I inhaled, steadied myself. “Next time, young lady, you tell me where you are going.”

  She nodded, not at all perturbed by my own perturbation, but more absorbed in her new guidebook.

  Dominique Delphine shaded her eyes with her hand, so I could only see her mouth rise in one corner in an amused smirk. I was reminded of Wednesday Addams all grown up. “Hello, Annie. So nice to see you.”