Chapter 12: March Third

Harrison drove me home from the yacht club without saying a word.

My grandmother's ring was in my pocket, warm from my own leg.

I should have been happy.

I had made a room of sixty people watch a girl take off my ring, and I had a receipt.

All I could hear was Camille's whisper.

"Ask him about March."

In the elevator I looked at him.

He was watching the floor numbers climb with his jaw set.

"What happened in March?" I asked.

He did not answer at once, and that was the answer.

"Come into the study," he said.

His study was at the end of the hall, behind a door he had never closed in my presence.

A desk, a lamp, two walls of books, a window over the water.

He crossed to the desk and unlocked the bottom drawer with a key from his pocket.

He did not open it. He stepped back.

"It's all in there," he said. "I'd rather you saw it than heard me explain it."

I opened the drawer.

There was a stack of photographs on top, face down.

I turned them over one at a time.

The first showed the lobby of the Fairmont, with a clock on the wall.

The time was stamped in white at the bottom.

March 3. 4:41 in the afternoon.

Dylan stood by the elevators in a gray coat with his arm around a woman in a cream dress, kissing her.

I knew the dress.

I had helped her pick it out.

There were nine more.

The same lobby, a restaurant on Western Avenue, a car park, a hotel door.

They ran through April, May and June.

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