She scarcely heard him. She punched off her cell and stared at the ring. That word—SEFYLL—when she’d said it aloud, when she’d said it correctly, time seemed to stop dead for a second or two, then replay itself. That sounded ridiculous. Was she being crazy? Maybe saying the word right on the ring conjured up some sort of weird hypnotic suggestion that made it appear that way.

Lucy took a deep breath, picked up the Chinese lamp that stood atop a side table, and flung it against the fireplace. As it shattered, she said clearly, “SEFYLL.”

Everything stopped, and suddenly the lamp was back on the end table, whole, untouched. She saw what seemed to be a small shudder in time itself. Another couple of seconds passed—nothing happened. She ran to the lamp, put her hands on it, and waited. More seconds passed, and still nothing happened, nothing at all. The Chinese lamp she’d hurled against the fireplace and smashed into a gazillion pieces was sitting, solid and unharmed, on the tabletop. She sat down in the large leather chair at her grandmother’s desk and stared in front of her. She wasn’t crazy, and if something unbelievable was happening, something incredible, she wouldn’t let it scare her stupid. She would understand it.

She began to experiment.

She held the ring—she learned she had to be holding it in her hand—and said the word clearly. Each time she did, the digital clock on her cell phone stopped, showed a time exactly eight seconds before, and with no pause, began to tick forward again. She hurled the lamp against the fireplace three more times just as she had before, and kept her eye on the second hand of her watch. As before, the lamp seemed to reassemble itself and the second hand on her watch always turned backward exactly eight seconds until it swept forward again.

Could she change anything she wanted in those eight seconds?

Lucy sat back down in the leather chair, her grandmother’s ring still on her middle finger, her hand fisted to keep it in place. Her grandfather had stolen it, hidden it, so she couldn’t use it again. Because he was afraid of what she would do with it? No, because she was going crazy, that was why. But her grandfather hadn’t been sure Lucy could make it work. Did it work for her only because it had been her grandmother’s? Evidently so.

Her father had seen his mother stab his father to death, but had he known about the ring? He must have known something about it; she’d heard her grandmother screaming about it to him the day her grandfather died.

The doorbell rang, but she ignored it, barely heard it.

Then someone was pounding on the door. She heard Dillon’s voice calling out, “Lucy! Come, open the door!”

She looked over at the giant clock in the corner. It was well past six o’clock. It was dark.

She slid the ring off her finger and quickly slipped it onto the gold chain she wore about her neck, stuffed it into her shirt. She realized as she ran to the door that her middle finger, once warm where she’d worn the ring, now felt cold.

“Lucy, open this door or I’m breaking in.”

“I’m coming, Dillon, I’m coming.” And she thought, tears stinging her eyes, Grandmother, if only you’d had the ring with you when my mother was hit by that drunk. If only.

CHAPTER 35

Lucy finally opened the door, wondering whether Dillon would really have broken it down. He looked at the banked excitement in her eyes, watched her as she said in a voice as bright as a new penny, “Sorry, Dillon, I was washing up,” and knew she was closed down tight. For the moment.

So he handed her the bag stuffed with Chinese takeout that included her favorite moo shu pork, and followed her to the bright kitchen to chow down on his own vegetarian delight. As they sipped the lovely hot tea that Sun Li, his and Sherlock’s favorite waiter, had insisted he take with him, he told her about Sherlock and Coop’s breakthrough in New York at the First Precinct, and showed her a printout of the sketch of Bruce Comafield that Sherlock had e-mailed to him.

Lucy bounced up and down, hooted. “Sherlock is unbelievable! Oh, yeah, it’s him. This is incredible, Dillon. Can you believe he’s wearing those same aviator glasses? Why don’t we go get him right now? Let’s grab him and haul him in.”

“Sorry, but we already thought of that. According to Lansford, no one has seen his aide since the evening we visited him at the Willard. No word as to his whereabouts yet.”

“We spooked him. I guess we should revisit all the witnesses in the other cities, see if anyone else saw this guy with her.”

Savich nodded and took another bite of the vegetarian fried rice.

Bruce Comafield. They were nearly to home plate. Lucy looked over at Dillon, marveled at him. And at Sherlock. Would she have been good enough to get that information and sketch out of the witness, Thomas Hurley? She didn’t know, but she’d missed out on an incredible find. She became suddenly aware of the ring pressing itself like a living thing against her skin, her incredible ring that had cost her grandfather his life. It was more than she could begin to understand, or begin to deal with at that moment. No, she had to focus here. She wanted more than anything to find Comafield, and she wanted Savich to trust her again with that assignment, rather than worry about her. She wanted to show him she was ready to throw herself back into the hunt for Kirsten Bolger. It hit her between the eyes that her boss was too perceptive, that any lie she told him, he’d recognize easily as a lie. Maybe he could help her.