After Damyanov was arrested for indecency in late 1930, Le Calice D’Or disbanded. Damyanov herself faded from public view. Her whereabouts after January 1931 are unknown.

I reread the passage, my sense of unease intensifying. I try to recall details of the Cornelia Swanson case. Her maid’s name was Ruby. I remember that. The Ruby Red Killing. She was cut open, her organs removed. Something like that is hard to forget. As is the fact that the murder took place on Halloween night. I can even remember the year: 1944.

I grab my phone and find a website that gives you the lunar cycle for every month in any given year. It turns out that on Halloween in 1944, the sky was brightened by the second full moon of the month.

A blue moon.

My hands start to shake, making it difficult to hold the phone as I do a new internet search, this time for a single name.

Cornelia Swanson.

A flurry of articles appears, pretty much all of them about the murder. I click on one and am greeted by a photo of the infamous Mrs. Swanson.

I stare at the picture, and the world goes sideways, as if the library has suddenly tilted. I grip the edge of the table, bracing myself.

Because the photo I’m looking at is one I’ve seen before. A sharp-featured beauty in a satin gown and silk gloves. Flawless skin. Hair as dark as a moonless night.

I saw it in the photo album in Nick’s apartment. Although he identified the woman, he never used her name.

But now I know it.

Cornelia Swanson.

And her granddaughter is none other than Greta Manville.

40

I text Dylan from inside the library.

Call me ASAP! I found something!

When five minutes tick by and he doesn’t respond, I decide to call him. A theory is forming. One I need to share with someone else, if only so they’ll tell me I’m being crazy.

But here’s the thing: I’m not being crazy.

Right now, insanity would be a blessing.

Outside, I lean against the base of one of the library’s stone lions and dial Dylan’s number. The call again goes straight to his voicemail. I leave a message, urgently whispering into the phone.

“Dylan, where are you? I’ve been looking into some of the people living at the Bartholomew. And they’re not who they say they are. I think—I think I know what’s going on, and it’s some scary shit. Please, please call me back as soon as you get this.”

I end the call and stare up at the sky. The moon is out already—full and bright and hanging so low it’s bisected by the spire of the Chrysler Building.

As kids, Jane and I loved full moons and how their light would stream in through her bedroom window. Sometimes we’d wait until my parents went to sleep and stand in the ice-white glow, as if bathing in it.

That memory is tainted now that I’ve read what members of the Golden Chalice allegedly did during full moons. Just like the Bartholomew, it’s another piece of my past with Jane sullied.

I turn around, about to head back inside the library, when a ring bleats from the phone still white-knuckled in my hand.

Dylan calling me back at last.

But when I answer the phone, it’s an unfamiliar voice I hear. A woman, her tone tentative.

“Is this Jules?”

“Yes.”

A pause.

“Jules, it’s Bobbie.”

“Who?”

“Bobbie. From the shelter.”

And then I remember. Bobbie, the kind and funny woman I spoke with two days ago.

“How are you?”

“I’m hanging in there. New day, new thoughts. All that Eleanor Roosevelt bullshit. But as much as I like to gab, this isn’t a social call.”

My pulse, which was just starting to settle down, revs up again. Excited blood pumps through my veins.

“You found Ingrid?”

“Maybe,” Bobbie says. “A girl just came in. She looks a lot like the girl in that picture you gave me. But there’s a chance it’s not her. She looks more ragged now than in the photo. In all honesty, Jules, she looks like something dead the cat just dragged in.”

“Did she say she was Ingrid?”

“She doesn’t talk much. I tried to buddy up to her, but she wanted none of it. The only thing she told me is that I could go fuck myself.”

That doesn’t sound like Ingrid. Then again, I have no idea what she’s been through in the past few days.

“What color is her hair?”

“Black,” Bobbie says. “A dye job. A crappy one, too. She missed a spot in the back.”

I grip the phone tighter. “Can you see her right now?”

“Yeah. She’s sitting on a cot, legs pulled to her chest, not talking to anyone.”

“That spot she missed in her hair—do you see any color there?”

“Let me look.” Bobbie’s voice becomes muted as she pulls away from her phone to get a better view. “Yeah, there’s some color there.”

“What is it?”

I hold my breath, preparing for disappointment. Considering the way my life has gone, I’ve come to expect it.

“It looks to me like a spot of blue,” Bobbie says.

I exhale.

It’s Ingrid.

“Bobbie, I need you to do me a favor.”