Page 65

“No, Lois.”

“Yes.”

“No, Lois. It’s not.” Beside him, Safie seemed to be nodding as well, but it was hard to tell; my eyes were too blurry, the light too strong. “Lo, honey, look at me. This didn’t happen because of you. Nothing that happens to Clark . . . nothing Clark does, or is . . . is specifically because of you. It doesn’t work that way.”

How do you know, though? I wanted to throw back a

t him. How can you? ’Cause I know I don’t, and can’t. Nobody can.

Then again, who fucking knew, right? Maybe it was that whole “faith” thing he was thinking about. Maybe that’s what made him sound so sure of himself, the bastard.

“This does,” is all I could manage by way of a reply—soft and choked, head bent, tears spilling over once more. “This does.”

(This is.)

He rose then, pulled me up, folded me in; Safie stood too, putting one comforting hand on my shoulder. And we stood like that for a while, all three of us, me shuddering in the centre.

“Jesus, if only we could figure out what Mrs. Whitcomb was actually trying to do with those films,” I said once I’d calmed down enough to resume my seat, “why she thought it wasn’t working—maybe we could . . . finish it, somehow. Make it work.”

“Complete the circuit,” Safie said. Simon snorted.

I nodded. “Something like that, sure. I just wish we could ask her, directly.”

Safie cleared her throat. “Well,” she began, “we still can’t do that, but I might’ve found something almost as good. I meant to tell you at the meeting, you and Jan, back before I saw the news: I found him, that guy, the kid Mrs. Whitcomb thought was gonna help her make the ultimate Lady Midday movie. Vasek Sidlo.”

My mouth dropped open. Simon frowned. “Wouldn’t he be like a hundred years old?”

“Over a hundred, yeah—checked it out, though, and it’s definitely him. Started with whitepages.ca, then cross-referenced; there’s only three V. Sidlos in the entire GTA, and of those, only one’s listed as an interview subject and ‘asset’ over at the Freihoeven Institute’s ParaPsych Department.”

“The what with the what, now?” I said.

“Toronto’s very own home-grown think tank for the Study of Weird-Ass Shit, basically. I got their name from Soraya, in case you’re wondering.” Which made sense, given Ms. Mousch’s personal involvement in the general area of Weird Shit. I kept nodding as Safie explained further. “He’s in assisted living at this point, paid for out of that trust Mr. Whitcomb set up for him; was asleep when I called, but the receptionist connected me with his personal nurse-practitioner. She says he’s frail, but still pretty sharp, able to get around on his own . . . It’d only take us about forty minutes to get there in my van.”

“And he remembers Mrs. Whitcomb?”

“That’s all he talks about, most days, apparently. She definitely left a mark.”

Of course she did.

“So,” Simon said—and it was weirdly fascinating, listening to him audibly wrestle to keep his voice from sliding into disbelief—“you’re thinking if you go interview the oldest man in Toronto, he’ll tell you the magic formula for stuffing Lady Midday back in her box? Or . . . field, I guess?”

“Maybe.”

Simon leaned forward, intent. “But what if he doesn’t know? Or he’s wrong? Or you’re wrong about what’s really happening here? Have you thought about what you’re going to do then?” When I didn’t answer, he laid one hand on mine, eyes soft, almost begging. “Why don’t we just go back to the hospital, okay? You and me, so we can be there when Clark wakes up, with my parents and your Mom. They’d appreciate it—him too. Safie could check this out then get back to you . . . right, Safie?”

For a moment, Safie looked as though she wanted to agree, but I shook my head. “I get that you don’t believe in any of this,” I told Simon. “And that’s okay, you don’t have to; probably better for you if you don’t. But I do, and I’m going—so unless you want to try and physically restrain me—” I pulled my hand out from under his “—nothing you say or do is gonna make me stop.”

He drew back, sat there a second, dead silent; I caught the hurt flicker in his eyes before his gaze hardened. Then—

“You know,” he began, carefully, “the one thing I’ve tried absolutely never to do in all our time together, ever, is give you an ultimatum. Which is why I’m . . .” a long pause “. . . very . . . disappointed . . . that you just gave me one.”

“I understand. But if this works, I won’t care . . . and you won’t either, frankly.”

Simon blinked. Clearly he’d been expecting me to backpedal, say something like No, no, of course not, that’s not what I meant. “You’re sure of that, huh?” he said.

I drew a breath then took his hand back. “I’m sure enough that I’m willing to count on you forgiving me.” I could hear the hoarseness in my own voice. “Because you’ve been the one thing in my adult life that I’ve been absolutely sure I can count on. I don’t see that changing. Do you?”

After a beat, Simon put his face in his hands and let out a long, tired sigh. “Okay then,” he said, eventually. “Here’s my ultimatum: I’m coming with you. I’m still pissed as hell,” he added, as if either of us thought for a second I didn’t know that. “But I’d never let you do this alone.”