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carpooled into the city once again, arriving nice and early. I couldn’t help feeling pleased.
    Until I walked into the building. Front Desk Bob, our gatekeeper (and a former cop) was already there behind the counter, getting ready for the day. When he saw me, he said, “You have a visitor,” and nodded toward the corner by the front window. I turned to see Meredith Hrivnak, a Philadelphia police detective I’d had dealings with in the past. From her expression, I didn’t think she was there to investigate her family tree. We’d first met after the death of a staff member at the Society. But if someone had died here again—heavenforbid!—wouldn’t the police have called me at home? Or rather, on my cell?
    I plastered on a smile to hide my unease. “Good morning, Detective. What can I do for you today?”
    â€œA man was hit and killed by a car outside your building last night.” The detective was not known for sugarcoating her pronouncements.
    My stomach plummeted. “How awful. Who is it?”
Please, please, not one of my employees.
    â€œGuy named Carnell Scruggs. You know him?”
    I shook my head, relieved to say truthfully that I’d never heard the name before. “Of course, I’m sorry to hear about anybody’s death by violence. But is that why you’re here? To ask if I knew him?” I glanced at Bob, who gave a slight shrug. Apparently he didn’t know anything more than I did.
    â€œThought you might be able to help us out. He was hit by a car traveling north on Thirteenth Street. Nice suburban lady heading home after a dinner with friends and only one glass of wine—and her blood alcohol level checks out all right. She says the guy came barreling out from between two parked cars, right next to that back alley of yours. You know, where you’ve got that big hulking Dumpster parked. What’s that for?”
    â€œWe’re renovating some parts of the building, and we’ve been clearing out old junk. You think this guy was pawing through the Dumpster and got startled and ran?”
    â€œDon’t know yet. I’d like you to take a look at him.”
    â€œAm I supposed to, uh, view the body?”
Please say no
,
I willed her silently.
    â€œNope. I’ve got his picture right here.” She pulled outher cell phone and scrolled through it until she found the picture she wanted. Then she handed it to me.
    I peered at the small image. The man appeared to be Caucasian, in his thirties or forties, with dark hair, neither long nor short. Ordinary clothes—jeans, a jacket, not particularly remarkable. Nothing that stood out. The tension seeped out of my muscles: I had definitely never seen him before.
    â€œHe one of yours?” Hrivnak asked.
    â€œNo, I don’t think I know him. Why do you ask? You said you have a name for him, right? Can’t you find out more about him that way?”
Without me?
    â€œYeah, Ms. Pratt, we will be doing that. He had a driver’s license on him, so we’ve got a name and address for him. We do know how to do our jobs.”
    I ignored her sarcasm. “Do you need to check inside our building, to see if he was here?”
    â€œDon’t see why. We already looked at your back door—no sign that it had been tampered with, so he probably wasn’t running away from here. Your alarm system was on, right?”
    â€œBob here’s the one who manages it, but he’s very careful about that, so I’d guess yes.”
    â€œThen you’re clear. For now. Oh, there is one thing that’s a little weird.”
    â€œWeird how?” I asked.
    â€œThe driver of the car—like I said, she wasn’t drunk, and from the skid marks she wasn’t speeding—swears the guy came out from between those cars backward.”
    It took me a moment to process that. “You mean, like going backward, not facing the street?”
    â€œYup. What do you