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And in that instant, Jordan understands that Hannah is keeping an awful secret. It’s part of why she’s locked up in Belman. She’s never told anyone, and she never, ever wants to. But suddenly, suddenly he knows what it is.

“Hannah?” he says again. “Has anyone you know—”

“Go away,” she gasps. “Just leave me alone.”

Then she runs down the hall and hangs a right into the quiet room. Slams the door behind her.

CHAPTER 69

At the morning meeting on Monday, Jordan eats his sawdusty nutrition bar while the staff discusses which patients require more medication, who might next try ECT, and who might be ready to go home someday soon.

Everyone’s still reeling from Sophie’s death. And they must be extra vigilant, Dr. Ager reminds them, and be on the lookout for any new signs of suicidal ideation.

“Research shows that exposure to suicide can increase suicidal behavior in others—what some call ‘suicide contagion,’” she says.

Jordan represses a shudder at the thought of self-harm catching like a cold. Everyone on the ward is already struggling. Some are getting better. But some seem to be getting worse.

Like Hannah.

When it’s time to talk about how she’s doing, Jordan decides to tell them what he knows: that someone close to Hannah died by suicide, he’s sure of it. And whatever the story of that death is, it’s so painful that Hannah can’t speak it out loud. She’s walled it up inside.

Locked it in a castle, you might say.

But when he’s done talking, he sees Nurse Amy staring at him and Lulu frowns over her mug of tea.

“How do you know that?” Amy asks.

When Jordan describes his interaction with Hannah, Amy crosses her arms over her chest. “So basically you’re telling us that you have ahunch,” she says. “A feeling that’s completely unconfirmed. Well, I hate to break it to you, but this isn’t a crime show, Jordan. You’re not a detective about to solve a cold case.”

Who are you, anyway?Dr. Ager’s expression seems to say.Are you supposed to be in this meeting?

Jordan feels his heartbeat accelerate. “I just feel like we might be asking the wrong questions about Hannah,” he says. “Like instead of always talking about what’swrongwith her, and what drugs we can give her, we should be asking about whathappenedto her.”

Renée nods curtly. “Thank you for assuming that you know more than we do, Mr. Hassan. The fact is, we have tried to find out about Hannah’s past for years, and she has systematically blocked us.”

But there’s a chance that she won’t block me, he thinks. He crumples the nutrition bar wrapper in his fist and pitches it into the trash can.And maybe she won’t be my only source of information, either.

CHAPTER 70

After work, Jordan takes the subway to Times Square. Instead of transferring to the 1, he gets off and emerges into the midtown evening. The weather has turned misty, and the streets seem quieter than usual. He heads north along Seventh Avenue, his hands shoved deep in his pockets and his ratty old parka zipped up tight around his neck.

Hannah had been questioned by police, then picked up by an ambulance, on 44th Street between Seventh and Eighth. Considering she has no known address listed, he figures that’s as good a place to start looking for more information as any.

It’s not really a residential neighborhood, but there are a handful of apartment buildings around. Might one of those windows be hers? Might there be neighbors who know something about her?

He stands near the corner where she broke down, squinting through the gray drizzle. Who should he talk to first? The angry-looking guy behind the bodega counter? The three men he sees crouched under the scaffolding on 44th, openly shooting up as pedestrians pass by? The kids working at the Gap?

As he’s debating, a woman comes toward him, weaving along the sidewalk. She wears a huge pink scarf and bright purple leggings. As she passes him, he hears her say, “I knew all theingredients and all the right spells. Those Wall Street motherfuckers took the money. But I invented ice cream!” And she goes on making the argument to the uncaring world.

Four blocks away, Jordan could buy a four-hundred-dollar pair of socks, a two-thousand-dollar tie; where he stands now, he sees commuters, pigeons, and homeless people. Poverty and misery and addiction.

And, of course, he sees that there’s a sale at the Gap. When is there not a sale at the Gap?

Then through the mist he spies a fruit vendor, staying mostly dry under a battered red umbrella, and he suddenly remembers one of the first things Hannah ever said to him.What if we’d met because we wanted the same apple from the fruit cart on 45th?

Jordan dashes down the block, pulling out the picture of Hannah he’d taken and printed out on his crappy printer.

“Excuse me, sorry,” he says, thrusting it toward the man, “do you know this girl?”