Sign Here(42)

“And that is . . . ?”

“Let’s use the Looking Glass.”



* * *



—

I HAVEN’T TOLD YOU much about the Looking Glass yet, have I? Of course, I know I haven’t. I’m just being coy.

In short, the Looking Glass finds what’s been lost. Be it a person, an object, or a moment in time, the Looking Glass has access to it all. If you have the right keywords, every single thing every single one of us has ever thought or seen or touched during our time on Earth can be rethought, reseen, retouched. It is Google for the entirety of human memory, and it is the only thing in Hell that is used with respect. Even the people who work on the Sixth Floor have limited access, if any. My elevator pass alone wouldn’t get me in the door. It takes a special kind of case or a special kind of person to gain access.

I needed the Looking Glass, too, you may remember. Not for this deal, but for my whole grand plan: I needed what only it could find. I had been thinking for weeks about how to get myself in, now that I had an elevator pass. What story to feed KQ so she would sign over approval.

And then here was Cal, holding the door wide open.

She was right—KQ wouldn’t be able to deny fifteen souls at once. As for how I would use that access for my own means, or what I would do when she realized I didn’t search for the results she expected, I would figure that out later.

For now, I just needed Cal to think the whole thing was her idea.

“What’s the Looking Glass?” I asked.





MICKEY





“DINNER SMELLS DELICIOUS, MR. HARRISON!” Ruth said as she jumped the last two steps into the kitchen, Mickey close behind. Mickey wore one of Ruth’s dresses, a gauzy blue sundress she had admired but would never ask to borrow, certain Ruth’s clothes would somehow be embarrassed to be seen on her. But Ruth said she thought it would bring out her eyes. Mickey felt like a fairy as she ran her fingers over the fabric, so fragile it felt whimsical, as if stitched by songbirds. She loved the way it fluttered after her on her way down the stairs.

Silas threw a dish towel over his shoulder and turned to face the girls. When he saw Mickey, his hand went to his heart.

“What—where is my daughter? Who is this princess in my kitchen?”

He staggered like the mere sight of her ripped him apart.

“Shut up, Dad,” Mickey said, punching him on the arm.

“Well, at least she still talks like my daughter.”

He reached out and wrapped an arm around Mickey’s shoulders, pulling her in. “You look beautiful, sweetheart,” he said into her hair. Mickey rolled her eyes and pulled free, reaching for the wooden spoon.

“What about me?” Ruth asked, spinning. Her dress was yellow with red flowers and a delicate white belt. It highlighted her skin the way the sun already had. Ruth seemed to live bathed in light.

“You are both Oscars ready,” Silas said, bowing his head. “We are not worthy!”

Ruth laughed and curtsied.

“You girls can set the table,” Silas went on as he turned back to the oven. “Dinner will be ready in five.”



* * *



—

SILAS SERVED THE BOURGUIGNON on trivets, and its steam mingled with the humid evening air enough to make everyone tug at their collars. Ruth took Mickey’s plate and piled it high before reaching for Sean’s.

“Thank you so much for this beautiful dinner, Mr. and Mrs. Harrison,” she said as she took the next plate. “If I lived with you all the time, I’d be a whale!”

“Oh, I doubt that,” Lily said. Mickey hadn’t seen her mother that day; she had gone into town to run errands. She looked tired, more so than usual for New Hampshire. She looked more like Home Lily, not Vacation Lily.

“So, Mick told me you two first fell in love here at this house in high school! That’s so romantic.” Ruth held her own plate now, gesturing with the serving spoon.

“That’s right,” Silas said, patting Lily’s hand. Lily reached for the sour cream.

“Tell me everything. What did you all do down here, back when you were our age?”

Sean rolled his eyes. “Don’t encourage them.”

“Oh, come on,” Ruth said. “I’ve never heard it!”

Sean stuck his fork into a carrot and didn’t say anything. Silas smiled. His past brightened under even the slightest flicker of attention, like Tinker Bell and her survival on faith.

“We have some good stories, that’s for sure.”

“Did you throw parties and stuff?”

“Well, don’t tell my kids, but definitely yes.”

“Tell the one about when Mom got that ticket from the boat police,” Mickey said. The edges of her dress rippled through her fingers in front of the fan. Even with every window open, the air smelled of nothing but red meat and redder wine.

“I wouldn’t call them ‘police,’?” Lily said. “They were younger than I was.”

“What were you doing?”

“I forgot to bring a life jacket. To be fair, I was barely fifty feet from the dock. I just wanted somewhere I could read quietly—Philip had been showing off his motorcycle all day, and the sound of that engine did not go with wine-cooler hangovers.”