“The reference isn't from a private library,” Selene said. “It's from a public archive.”
She searched the city library catalog. A collection of nineteenth-century coastal transcriptions had been donated by the families of dockworkers after the Pier Nine fire. The holdings had been reorganized in 2007. The online catalog listed boxes, not contents.
One box carried the number that matched the faint pencil indentation.
Dante stood. “Let's go.”
“Not before we request it properly.”
“Because if somebody knows we're investigating, we'll need a record showing who accessed it and when. And because archives have rules.”
“You have a particular affection for rules.”
“I have a particular affection for rules that apply equally to you and me.”
He regarded her for a moment, then took a seat again.
Ellen went to make the catalog request. Luca stepped into the corridor to answer a call. For the first time all morning, Selene and Dante were alone.
“Your father knew mine,” she said.
Dante's posture changed. “How?”
She showed him the photograph. He took his time studying the men on the dock, then placed it face up on the table.
“Vittorio is holding a document case. Carmine's younger, but that's him.”
“Can you tell where they are?”
“Pier Nine. I recognize the loading crane. The warehouse burned three weeks after that photo was taken.”
Selene nodded. “My mother remembers the checks from Orsini.”
Dante looked toward the window. “When I was a boy, my father brought me to a memorial service for the men who died there. He stood through nineteen names. Afterward he sent flowers to the families and told me never to mention the building again.”
“Did he feel guilty?”
“I thought he did.” He waited. “I don't know what I think now.”
She didn't press. The admission had cost him something.
On their way out, Ellen handed Selene an archive appointment slip for the following morning. A librarian had confirmed the box existed. It would be delivered to the reading room at nine.
Selene slipped the appointment into her coat pocket with unreasonable care. Small, legitimate steps. A public catalog. A signed form. She wanted desperately for the world to still contain such things.
But that night, while she was preparing toast in her apartment, the electricity went out.
At first she assumed a neighborhood fault. The hallway lights remained on. Her phone showed the building still had internet. Then she heard the scrape of a key in the outside lock.
She moved into the bathroom and shut the door, calling Mara with shaking hands. Someone entered the kitchen. A cabinet opened. A drawer struck wood.
Selene did not confront them. She gave the address to the emergency dispatcher, then remained where she was until the police arrived. By then whoever had entered was gone. Her laptop was still on the table. The television remained untouched. Only one thing was missing.
The book of dialect maps that held her father's last letter.
The officer taking her statement asked if she knew who might have a key. She gave him the property manager's name and described the anonymous email. He did not promise to solve the burglary, only to take the report and request the corridor footage. Selene appreciated the honesty.
An hour later Dante came to the building. He stayed on the sidewalk after Selene told him she would not let anyone decide where she lived.
“I can put you in a protected hotel,” he said.
“With men outside the door?”
“With a lock that hasn't been compromised.”
“Then have your lawyer arrange it through Mara. I won't disappear into another man's idea of safety.”
His expression softened. “Fair enough.”