“Yes.”

“Do you still hear from— What’s this gentleman’s name?”

“Andrew Ryan.”

“That’s a lovely name. Have you communicated with him since his child’s passing?”

“One visit and one email.”

“My, my. That’s hardly devotion.”

“Mmm.”

“Did he tell you where he was going?”

“He told no one.” Defensive.

“Others are looking for him?”

There’s no slipping anything past Mama. “Some detectives would like his help on a case.”

“Is it something just too wretched for words?”

Mama had always shown keen interest in my work. In my “poor lost souls,” as she called the unnamed dead.

Seeing no harm, I described the cold case investigations involving Vermont and Charlotte. Anique Pomerleau and Montreal. I said nothing about Shelly Leal.

Mama asked her usual questions: who, when, where. Then she settled back on the chaise and recrossed her ankles. I waited. After a full minute she said, “These other detectives think your Andrew Ryan can catch this dreadful woman?”

“Yes.”

“Do you?”

“Maybe.” If he hadn’t fried his brain with booze. Fried himself with grief and self-loathing.

“Then we shall find him.”

I snorted.

Mama’s jaw tightened.

“I’m sorry. I just know you have other things on your mind. You need to focus on recovery. I don’t doubt you can find him.”

I didn’t.

When she was fifty-eight and emerging from a particularly cavernous funk, I bought my mother her first computer, an iMac that cost much more than I could afford. I held little hope that she’d find the cyber world attractive, but I was desperate for something to occupy her attention. Something other than me.

I showed her how to use email, word processers, spreadsheets, the Internet. Explained about browsers and search engines. To my surprise, she was fascinated. Mama took class after class. Learned about iTunes, Myspace, Facebook, Twitter, Photoshop. Eventually, as was typical, her mastery of the new sport was way beyond mine.

I wouldn’t call my mother a hacker. She has no interest in the secrets of the DOD or NASA. Doesn’t collect credit card or ATM numbers. Nevertheless. When she’s on her game, there’s nothing she can’t tease from the World Wide Web.

“Do you still have his email?” Mama asked.

“I suppose I could find it. But all he said was—”

“I’ll be right back.”

Before I could object, she was up and into the house. Moments later, she returned with a Mac the size of a fashion magazine.

“You use Gmail, don’t you, darlin’?” Lifting the lid and tapping a sequence of keys.

I nodded.

She patted a spot to her right. When I shifted to her chaise, she placed the laptop on my knees. “Pull it up.”

I logged in to my service provider and entered an identifier I thought might work. Seconds later, Ryan’s email appeared on the screen. I opened it.

Doing well. Miss you. AR.

I passed the computer to Mama. She clicked on a tiny triangle to the right of the reply arrow. From a drop-down menu, she chose the command “Show Original.”

A block of data appeared. The font looked like something produced by the old mainframe I used as an undergrad.

Mama pointed to a line about halfway down. The header said “Received.” Embedded in the gibberish was a string of four numbers divided by periods. “Every email has an IP address. It does basically the same thing a street address does for snail mail. That’s our sweet baby there.”

She highlighted and copied the numbers to the clipboard. Then she logged out of Gmail and entered a site called ipTRACKERonline.com. “Now we do what’s called geolocation.”

After pasting the string of numbers into a box in the middle of the screen, she hit enter. In seconds, a Google Earth satellite image appeared. On it was a red circle with its root stuck into the ground.

Below the map was information organized into three categories: Provider info. Country info. Time info.

I skimmed the center column. Country. Region. City. Postal code. I looked at Mama. “It’s that easy?”

“It’s that easy.”

She closed the laptop, turned, and hugged me. Her arms felt frail inside their thick woolen sleeves. “Now, my sweet girl, you go find your Andrew Ryan.”

“If I do, I may not be able to visit on Thursday.”

“We can have turkey any ole time. You go.”

Before leaving River House, I detoured down a carpeted corridor accessed from one side of the dining room. Dr. Finch’s office door was cracked, allowing a partial view of her seated behind an ornately carved desk. A plaque shared the fact that her first name was Luna.

I knocked softly, then entered.

Dr. Finch looked up. A moment of surprise, then she gestured to one of two chairs opposite her.

As I sat, Dr. Finch leaned back and steepled her fingertips. She was short and round, but not too short and round. Her hair was curly, dyed brown, and blunt-cut just below her ears.

“Her spirits are up,” I said.

“Yes.”

I smiled, and Dr. Finch smiled back.

“She thinks she is dying.”

A pause, then, “Your mother has cancer.”

My heart froze in my chest. “She just learned this?”

“She’s been seeing an oncologist for several months.”

“And I wasn’t informed?”

“We are not your mother’s primary physicians. We attend to her mental well-being.”

“Can the two be separated?”

“Upon arrival, your mother informed us of her condition and requested confidentiality. She is an adult. We must respect her wishes. Now she feels it is time we talk to you.”

“Go on.”

“Go on?”

“Tell me the rest.”

“The cancer is spreading.”

“Of course it is. That’s what cancer does. How is it being treated?” Luna Finch regarded me with eyes that answered my question. Yes, I thought. No hair loss and wigs for Mama.

“Would chemo help?” I asked. “It might.”

I swallowed. “And if she continues to refuse?”

Again the eyes.

I looked down at my hands. My right thumb was red and swollen. Itchy. A mosquito, I diagnosed.

“What now?”

“Your mother has chosen to stay at Heatherhill Farm as long as she can.”

“And how long will that be?”

“Perhaps a good while.”

I nodded.

“Is the number we have on file for you still current? In case we need to reach you?”

“Yes.” I rose.

“I’m very sorry,” she said.

Outside, the mist had burned off. High above, a white vapor trail streaked a cloudless blue sky.

Mama couldn’t be dying.

Yet Luna Finch said it was so.

CHAPTER 5

I DON’T SLEEP well on planes. Believe me, I try.

It was midafternoon by the time I got back to Charlotte. Eight when I finished a prelim on Larabee’s car trunk case. Ten when I finally found and booked a flight and room.

After arranging for cat care with my neighbor, I packed a carry-on, took a shower, and fell into bed.

My mind kept churning, offering up outtakes, unedited, lacking chronology.

Childhood memories of my mother.

Happy times. Reading to Harry and me on the garden swing. Quoting Shakespeare, Milton, other long-dead strangers we didn’t understand. Driving the Buick on illicit après-bedtime ice cream sorties.

Sad times. Listening outside Mama’s bedroom door. Confused by the tears, the breaking glass. Terrified she’d come out. Terrified she wouldn’t.

Memories of Andrew Ryan. Happy times. Skiing at Mont Tremblant in the Laurentian Mountains. Celebrating successes at Hurley’s Irish pub. Laughing at our shared cockatiel Charlie’s bawdy quips.

Sad times. The day Ryan was shot. The plane crash that took the life of his partner. The night we ended our relationship.

Doubts about my upcoming excursion. Was it futile? Ryan’s email was almost a month old. Had he moved on?