I had the briefcase open in moments, and found files inside. I flipped through them, noting yellowed pieces of paper covered in handwritten notes, along with typed documents: telegrams, letters, lists of numbers and codes that made no sense. In a large manila envelope I found black-and-white photographs. One caught my eye, and sent my heart scattering into a hard ache.

It was of my grandmother, a night shot. I knew because her arms were bare, and there were no tattoos on her skin. She was wearing a chi pao, a slender silk dress with a high collar and slit up her thigh that exposed a long trim leg. Her hair was down, her face very young. She looked just like me, but no older than eighteen. Zee and the others crowded close to stare at the photo, and made small choking sounds.

A little boy stood under her arm with a big grin on his face. He was skinny, with badly cut dark hair, and held a soccer ball under his bony arm. He might have been ten years old. No dates had been written on the photo, no identifying information, but it had to be Ernie. I recognized his eyes.

Another photograph caught my eye. It was my grandmother again, but just her face; less than a portrait, and more like someone’s attempt to be artful. I saw the edge of an alley behind her, blurred laundry hanging from lines. A day shot. She wore a high collar and sweat beaded her brow. She was so young. Painfully new, but with the beginning of that hard edge in her eyes that I knew so well. Because it was in my eyes.

There were bumps in the image, and I turned it over. Found a message typewritten into the yellowing paper. Started reading, and my knees buckled. I sat down hard, missed the edge of the bed, and landed awkwardly on the floor. I hardly noticed.

Maxine, I read, in that small classic typeset. If you get this, save Ernie. Save them all, if you can. I can’t do any more here. She’s

But the sentence went unfinished. She’s…and nothing. She’s dead, I thought, She’s alive, she’s a demon, she’s—

Spots of light flickered in my vision. I blinked hard, and reached out to grab Zee by the scruff of his neck. I felt dizzy. The wig was suddenly too hot. Sweat trickled down my back.

“My name,” I hissed. “This note is addressed to me by name. Just like Ernie knew my name.”

Zee quivered. I released him and stood awkwardly, knees still weak. After a few short steadying breaths, I threw the entire contents of the briefcase into the tote bag, including a box of bullets, and the unopened container of a new disposable cell phone.

On my way out, I stopped at the front desk again. “Quick question. My grandfather wants to make sure he’s paid up for the next day or two. Did he use cash or a credit card?”

The young woman did not need to check the computer. She tilted her head, thinking. “Cash. He said he was old-fashioned that way. I think he paid for the entire week, so he doesn’t need to worry.”

I nodded, and left at a quick trot. The police would not track Ernie Bernstein to this hotel for a while yet, and if he had been as careful as I thought, then perhaps not at all. The man had not wanted to be discovered; in fact, he’d been paranoid about it if he had eschewed the use of a credit card. Or maybe he really was old-fashioned.

But somehow I didn’t think so. Ernie had known he was being hunted. And the hunter had caught up.

Now it was time for me to do the same.

Chapter 3

“Shanghai was a refuge for Jews during World War Two,” Grant said, over an early breakfast. “It was the only place in the world that didn’t require a visa, so thousands of Jewish refugees went there to escape the Nazis.”

Long night. Almost dawn. I could feel it in my bones as I chewed on a piece of bacon, eyes burning with weariness—or so I kept telling myself. “But the Japanese occupied the city, and they were allied with Hitler.”

“Allied, maybe, but they basically left the Jews alone. Forced them to live in a particular neighborhood, required passes to move around the city…a hard life, but compared to what was going on in Europe, it was nothing.”

I finished the bacon, rubbed my hands on a napkin, and leaned over to stare at the files spread on the table between us. I still felt shaken by the message on the back of the photo. I should have been used to strange things by now, but my tolerance for the bizarre, apparently, was not that strong when it involved my family.

Raw and Aaz were on the floor by the television, watching an old Yogi Bear episode while fishing into a box of razor blades, eating them like potato chips. Zee had a laptop in front of him, delicately tapping the keys with his claws while his little brow wrinkled into a frown. My credit card and a copy of the New York Times were beside him, open to the financial section. Dek and Mal coiled over his shoulder, peering at the screen, occasionally whispering in his ear. Grant followed my gaze. “Stock broker now?”

I grunted, sipping coffee. “I’m not sure I want to know.”

Grant picked up the picture of my grandmother. He had said very little about the message, but the line between his eyes had not yet smoothed away. “Remarkable resemblance. Have you spoken with Jack yet?”

“All the women in my family look the same.” I reached for the FedEx envelope, already torn open. “And no. He’s disappeared again.”

Jack Meddle. My grandfather. A respected archaeologist and intellectual, who on the surface seemed like nothing more than a cheerful, dapper, eccentric old man who lived above an art gallery in downtown Seattle. But he was even less human than Grant or me—though I was no longer certain if humanity could be judged so simply.

There was very little in the FedEx envelope—which I had ripped into as soon as I left the hotel and gotten into the car. Contents minimal—just a handwritten letter, read for the first time in the dark, and now here, again, at the kitchen table.

E.

I hope this reaches you in time. Be careful. Don’t do anything stupid. And don’t get your hopes up. She’s not Jean. She won’t understand what we went through together. How could she? How could anyone? I don’t care what Jean told you. That was more than sixty years ago. Grandmothers are not their granddaughters, and the dead don’t speak for the living.

Nor do the living ever listen.

Best,

Winnie

As before, the words had a hypnotic effect. I could not stop staring at them. One, in particular.

Jean.

Strange, seeing my grandmother’s name written in someone else’s hand.

Almost as strange as seeing my name typewritten on the back of her photograph.

I reluctantly gave the letter to Grant. While he read, I twisted in my chair to look at Zee. “I want the story. I want to know what happened. These children who knew my grandmother. Why?”

Raw and Aaz stopped chewing razor blades. Zee sighed. “Double eyes, double life. Old mother worked undercover.”

“Undercover,” I echoed. “Undercover? Are you saying she was a…a spy?”

Dek made a tittering sound. Zee held his little hand like a gun and blew on his finger. “Kiss. Jean Kiss.”

I slumped in my chair, drumming my fingers on the table. “For which country?”

Mal began humming the melody of “America the Beautiful.” Grant coughed, but it sounded suspiciously like laughter. I tried giving him a dirty look, but it was difficult.

My grandmother, the spy. Of course.

“So she was in China during World War Two,” I said, chewing over the idea. “Hiding out with Jewish refugees in Shanghai while spying on the Japanese?”

Grant stared at the letter in his hands. “It would have been easy for her to do. Twelve thousand Jews, plus a million Chinese, crammed into a neighborhood that was approximately one square mile in size? Good place to get lost.”