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  • The Pattern in the Mind
    The first case was elegant. That was the first thing I noticed, and perhaps the first mistake I made. Crime scenes are rarely elegant. They are messy and desperate and human in the way that a scream is human or a broken bottle is human. But the scene on East Eighty-seventh Street was composed. The body was positioned with intention. The blood was arranged in patterns that my trained eye...
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  • The Long Island Sanatorium
    The jazz played from a gramophone in the corner of the newsroom, a thin reedy sound that barely competed with the clatter of typewriters and the murmur of a hundred men deciding what the world should think. I sat at my desk with a cigarette burning down between my fingers and stared at the telegram on the paper in front of me. Eileen Foster, it said. Last seen: Oakcliff Sanatorium, Long Island....
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  • The Starlight Corridor
    ACT I: THE AWAKENING The jazz poured from the speakeasy on Forty-second Street like water from a broken dam, and Thomas Callahan stood on the corner, listening to it the way a starving man listens to the smell of bread. He was twenty-four, Irish on his father's side, poor on both, and possessed of a mind that saw patterns where other men saw only chaos. Three years earlier, Thomas had arrived...
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  • The Observer at Five Points
    Case file #47: Margaret O'Brien, personal notes. Date: March 14, 1963. I did not want this job. I wanted to finish my degree at Columbia, like my father had wanted me to before the incident at the precinct that made finishing anything feel impossible. Instead I was sitting in a third-floor office above a laundromat on Broadway, typing up case reports for a man who treated the rules of criminal...
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  • The Observer at Five Points
    The first thing you notice about Five Points is the smell. Not the second thing or the third thing, but the first. It hits you before you see the buildings or hear the voices or notice the children running barefoot through streets that were more mud than cobblestone. It is the smell of five thousand people living on top of each other in spaces no architect would have approved for a dog kennel....
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  • The Last Letter from Windermere
    The autumn of 1873 came early to the Lake District, its fogs rolling down from the fells like the breath of something vast and ancient. Eleanor Ashworth noticed it more than most, for she had spent the better part of her twenty-two years watching weather from the windows of her father's house, a modest Georgian affair at the edge of Grassmere, where the road dissolved into sheep pasture and the...
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  • The Black Signal
    I. The package arrived on a Tuesday, wrapped in brown paper and tied with twine, postmarked from nowhere I recognized. There was no return address. No note. Just my name, Jack Morretti, written in a hand that looked like it had been trained in a monastery and then ruined by whiskey. I opened it at the bar—Sal's Place, a dimly lit hole on Sunset Boulevard where the beer was warm and the patrons...
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  • The Long Downpour
    I. The rain had been falling for three days when the dam broke. Not a storm dam—a river dam. The Michigan River Levee, the one that kept the south side of Chicago from drowning every spring. It broke at two in the morning on a Thursday, and by morning, the south side was underwater. My name is Jack Morane. I am thirty-four years old. I am a private detective in Chicago. I wear an old trench...
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  • The Architect of Memory
    (Biographical Fiction Variation) The archives of the Vatican are a labyrinth of silence and dust, where the history of the world is stored in vellum and ink. Father Thomas Moreland had spent forty years in these depths, a scholar of the forgotten, a man who believed that the truth was not found in the grand narratives of the Church, but in the margins of the manuscripts. Thomas was a man of...
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  • The Neon Cicada
    (Japanese Modern Variation) Tokyo in the 1950s was a city of contradictions—a landscape of scorched earth and soaring steel, where the ghosts of the empire collided with the neon promises of the American dream. Kenji was a man of the middle ground, a translator who spent his days turning English technical manuals into Japanese and his nights translating the silence of his own heart into a...
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  • The Black Badge
    The rain in Los Angeles doesn't wash things clean. It just makes the dirt slicker. I was sitting in my office on Sunset Boulevard, watching the water trace ugly paths down the single window, when the door opened without my permission. She walked in like she owned the building, which in this town was basically the same thing. She was wearing black. Not mourning black—operating black. The kind...
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  • The Other Side of the Mirror
    The first session with Client X began on a Monday in March, which is to say it began on a day that was indistinguishable from every other day in my practice. I am Arthur Payne. I am forty-five years old. I am a psychologist with a private practice on the Upper East Side of Manhattan. I specialize in trauma and post-traumatic stress. I have been doing this work for eighteen years. I am good at...
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