She had never felt so lost until Connolly found her.

The first thing Wednesday morning, Bennie hurried along Twentieth Street to the Free Library of Philadelphia, swimming upstream against the businesspeople striding to work in lightweight suits and dresses, smelling of mousse and determination. Noisy rush-hour traffic flooded the Benjamin Franklin Parkway for the start of the business day and swirled around Logan Circle, clogging the four lanes into the city. The sun burned hot; it felt muggy even at nine o’clock in the morning, setting horns honking.

Bennie reached the arched facade of the Free Library, a massive, columned edifice of marble, sitting majestic as a lion at the foot of the Parkway. She climbed the steps and pushed open the brass door as soon as the blue-shirted security guard unlocked it for business. Bennie needed to find a defense witness, someone who remembered the clothes Connolly was wearing the day Della Porta was murdered.

She hustled into the entrance hall with its grand staircase, a chamber as hushed and elegant as she remembered from her childhood. Glistening glass display cases lined the huge room, the high ceiling was vaulted, and the marble floor was fawn-colored, inlaid with malachite. Bennie dug. in her briefcase, retrieved her legal pad, and skimmed her notes. Connolly had said something about the pretty wrought iron in the library. One pretty room with ironwork, coming right up.

Bennie ducked into a large room on the right under a sign for Lending Library. Two desks flanked the front door and the main area contained shelves of new releases. A wrought iron balcony ringed the room, but the room wasn’t pretty, and she guessed it would be the busiest room in the library. Not the best place to become an author. Bennie left and went back to the entrance hall. On its other side was another large room, its entrance under a sign for Music Department. The room was dim, owing to the odd green tint of its windows, and the requisite wrought iron was scarce.

Bennie crossed to the grand staircase, also of tan marble, running her fingers along a sleek banister of polished brass. She hustled past a bronze cast of the library’s founder and a bizarre Victorian candelabra of carved marble set on lion’s claws, which looked like a lamp with toes. She chugged to the top of the staircase and entered the first room. The Social Sciences room contained a bank of computers, but it was dark because the curtains were closed. She left the room, betting it failed the pretty test, and walked out to the staircase landing again, where she spotted a pebbled sign that read LITERATURE.

Sounded pretentious enough.

Bennie strode down the marble corridor and slipped inside the room. It was a city block long, three stories high, and ringed by curly wrought iron balconies. The plaster ceiling was carved with elaborate Victorian curlicues, swirls, and figures. Indirect sunlight shone from the windows, falling softly on the vacant tables, and a row of computers sat off to one side. Standing by the bookshelves, Bennie ran a finger along the plastic-covered volumes. Milton. Pope. Tennyson. Thomas. She experienced a vague déjà vu of her father’s cottage in Delaware. Had Connolly written in this room? Could she be drawn to books for the same reasons Bennie’s father had been? Was it in their genes, and hers?

Bennie heard the sound of a chair being pulled out, and looked around. A librarian was returning to her desk. “Excuse me,” Bennie said, walking over. “I’d like to ask you a few questions.”

“Certainly.” The librarian was a slim, middle-aged woman with brushy silver hair, punctuated on either side by onyx dot earrings. She wore a loose, light-blue dress and red sailcloth espadrilles, and her smile was pleasant.

“Do you know a woman, a library patron, named Alice Connolly? She used to come here to write, every day until about a year ago.”

“I don’t recall that name.” The librarian turned and faced an old gray computer monitor, then hit a few keys. “There are twenty Alice Connollys listed here as members.”

“Her address would be on Trose Street.”

“Sorry. She’s not here. She didn’t have a card, not in the Philadelphia library system.”

Bennie frowned. “Maybe she didn’t take books on loan, but I believe she used this room to write in. She mentioned that she wrote on the computer. Do you know the people who use these computers, at least by sight?”

“Yes. I recognize the regular patrons. Most are students, because our collection is scholarly. We tend to be responsive to academic needs, and I see the same faces. What does Ms. Connolly look like?”

“Like me, only better.” Saying it out loud validated the connection. “Her hair is different. Red and short, styled in layers, and she’s thin.”

The woman looked Bennie up and down. Librarians were nothing if not forthright. “No. I’m sorry.”

Bennie thanked the librarian, confused. She’d have to double-check the other rooms. She left the room and was hurrying down the marble corridor when she felt something brush her shoulder.

“Alice,” said a soft voice from behind. “Is that you?”

Bennie turned. It was a slight young man wearing a black T-shirt, black jeans, and Doc Martens. He carried a black knapsack on a bony shoulder. “You mean Alice Connolly?” Bennie asked, stepping forward.

“Wait, wait a minute.” The young man’s eyes were dark behind his tiny matte-framed glasses, and they searched Bennie’s face. He had to be twenty-five, but bewilderment reduced him to a small boy. And there was another emotion, one Bennie couldn’t quite place.

“You know Alice Connolly, don’t you? You thought I was her, didn’t you?”

“Yes, but-”

“Have you seen Alice here, writing on the computers?”

“Who are you?” The young man edged backward, toward the staircase.

“Who are you?If you’re a friend of Alice’s, talk to me. I’m her lawyer.”

“I can’t. I have to go. I have to get going.” He backed down toward the grand staircase and hurried down the stairs. Bennie hustled after him, her pace quicker. She could outrun an art student, for Christ’s sake. His Doc Martens clomped down the stairs, with Bennie at his crepe heels. Three feet away, then two.

“Stop,” Bennie called out, almost nabbing him in the middle of the staircase. “Just stop and we’ll talk.”

“I don’t know anything. Leave me alone!” The young man reached the landing and whirled around the corner to the next set of stairs, almost slipping on the marble. Bennie swung for him and missed, and he hit the lobby and raced across the floor toward the exit door. In front of it was the security desk, with a guard and a turnstile that gave Bennie an idea.

“Stop that kid!” she shouted to the guard. “He took my purse!”

“No! That’s not true!” the young man called, too late. The turnstile caught him in his slim waist and he doubled over.

“Wait right there, sir,” barked the guard, a heavyset black man in a blue shirt. A baseball bat with duct tape around its handle rested in the corner next to his perch. “Lady says you stole her bag.”

“I didn’t!”

Bennie feigned surprise. “My goodness, how silly of me. I just remembered. I didn’t bring my purse today. I’m so sorry.”

The guard scowled, looking from Bennie to the young man. “Sorry about that, sir. If you have no library materials to declare, you’re free to go.”

“Thanks,” he said, though Bennie clamped a hand on his shoulder.

“I have no library materials,” she told the disapproving guard and pressed through the exit into the sunlight. The streets were alive with businesspeople, summer tourists, and heavy traffic. Bennie tightened her grip on the kid and pressed him out of the foot traffic and toward Logan Circle. “I have to talk to you about Alice Connolly. I’m trying to help her. If you don’t talk to me now, I’ll subpoena you. Either way, we’re gonna have a chat.”