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Inside, the tiled lobby reeked of chlorine thanks to a marble fountain in the middle of the space that was likely the height of taste at one point but currently reminded Jack of an elaborate urinal. He pushed through a sad moment, during which he wrestled with the fact that he’d never use one of those again, and made his way to the elevator. Eli had already scoped out Pamela’s unit number. She lived on the ninth floor, apartment 907. It was only a little after seven p.m., and with any luck, she’d be inside.

A cacophony of yaps erupted in response to Jack’s tap on the unit door, followed by a singsong voice cooing at the yappers. A moment later, the door opened and Pamela poked a middle-aged blond head out. Her headshot must have been a few years old by now, her hair infused with strands of gray left untouched by dye, though it was set in the same elaborately styled coif as in the photos Jack had seen.

“Can I help you?” she asked, scooping one small dog under each arm.

“I believe so,” said Jack, procrastinating the next part of that sentence with a long smile. “My daughter”—gross—“was born in this apartment. To me, her mother.”—awful—“We’re back in the neighborhood for the first time in years and were wondering if we could have a look inside. I’m very old and will probably die soon, so this might be our last chance.”

Pamela’s brows dropped. “That’s odd, the apartment was just built not long before I moved in. I didn’t think anyone lived here before me and my husband.”

Shit.

“No,” Jack agreed. “We didn’t live here.”

“But you had your daughter here?”

“I—uh…” Double shit. Why hadn’t Eli warned him about this? His brain whirled. He could say they’d been squatting there while the building was vacant, but that probably wouldn’t do much to endear them to this woman. Mistaken location? But then there was no way they’d get an invitation inside.

“No, of course we didn’t actually live here.” Greer stepped into both the conversation and Jack’s thoughts, squishing his utterly futile ideas like unhelpful ants. “But the story my dear mother”—disgusting—“always told me was that she and Dad, rest his soul, were looking at renting this very apartment when she went into labor. It all happened so fast that she didn’t have a chance to get to the hospital before I came out into the world, and into this unit. Isn’t that right, Mom?”

And there it was. There she was. Perfect and clever and one step ahead of even Jack at all times. He took a breath to steady himself, his heart beating a song it only ever played for her.

“That’s right,” he said.

“Oh my word.” Pamela bounced her little dogs under her arms. “The miracle of life, right here in my apartment. Please, come in, come in. What room did your water break in? The guest room? We always wondered about that stain.”

Jack and Greer followed her into the apartment. It was dated in color, the walls a salmon pink with aqua accents in the decor, and Jack couldn’t help but wonder whether it had looked like this for as long as the urinal fountain had dribbled downstairs. Pamela walked them through a narrow hallway lined with framed family photos and into a floral-forward primary bedroom, complete with a plush, leaf-shaped headboard. Aside from the early ’90s time warp, the space was tidy and nondescript. It didn’t appear to be the bedroom of a thief, but if there was one thing Jack knew by now, it was that appearances could be deceiving.

Pamela continued the tour in the guest room, its walls a faded peach. Sure enough, the beige carpet did hold an unidentifiable stain in roughly the shape of Australia. Pamela’s face brightened as they walked in, her gaze resting expectantly on Jack.

“Yup, this is where the magic happened,” he said, as out of his element as he had been in the ladies’ lingerie department the first time he needed to buy a new bra for Margaret’s G cup.

“It must have been a very quick labor if you couldn’t even get to the hospital,” Pamela said.

“Yeah, you know how it goes,” said Jack, who didn’t.

Pamela’s smile faded at this. “I’m afraid I don’t. It had always been a dream, but Barry and I were never able to…” She turned her face to the window, leaving Jack in the echo of an increasingly uncomfortable conversation.

“They aren’t usually that fast,” Greer said, voice softening. “Mom had it easy with me. I’ve had two births, myself. With the second I was in labor for thirty-six hours. Nearly needed a C-section by the end of it.”

“But it’s all worth it in the end, isn’t it?” Pamela brought herself back from the window, landing a sad smile on Greer.

“I wouldn’t have changed a thing,” Greer said, the tenderness of her words striking Jack over the head like a baseball bat swung at full force. Her youngest, the child she’d spent thirty-six hours in pain to bring into the world, was sick, and it was up to Jack to help make her better. The weight of his mission landed heavily on his shoulders in that moment, more heavily than Greer’s hazel eyes ever had. She continued, “Do you have any kids in your life?”

“Three nieces,” said Pamela. “All grown now. The oldest two have their own children. They were just here on the weekend.”

Greer gave Pamela’s arm a gentle pat. “The photos in the hall?”

Pamela nodded.

“You have a beautiful family.”

They looked at each other for a moment, something unspoken passing between them, then Pamela spoke. “Come, sit down for a bit, won’t you? I’ll make us some tea.”

She led the way back to the living room and offered a garish floral sofa for her guests to sit on, scooting up across from them on a rusty orange La-Z-Boy that looked as though it had had to fight for its place among the retro pastels. “Tell me,” she said, crossing one leg over the other and leaning forward, “where are you living these days?”

This conversation was going to take a while, Jack could feel it, and what it felt like was a waste of time. He needed to see if there was anything in this apartment to indicate that Pamela had the Master List in her possession, and he couldn’t get that done by regaling her with a fictional life story.

“Actually, I have to pee,” he said. “Sorry, bladder’s not what it used to be.” Which was true; it used to be a thirty-four-year-old man’s until only very recently. “Bathroom?”