Michael Connelly: Lost Light

But it didn’t happen. I got to the door and had to push the button and knew I would probably have to push my way in. Figuratively. I heard a chime sound from inside and I waited. Before I needed to ring again the door was answered by a woman, a Latina who looked to be in her sixties. She was small and had a kind but worn face. She looked like she felt bad about the shotgun burns on my face. She didn’t wear a uniform of any type but I was guessing she was the maid. Eleanor with a maid. I had a hard time picturing that.

“Is Eleanor Wish here?”

“Can I say who it is, please?”

Her English was good and carried only a slight accent.

“Tell her it’s her husband.”

I saw the alarm go off in her eyes and I realized that I had been stupid.

“Former husband,” I said quickly. “Just tell her it’s Harry.”

“Please wait.”

I nodded and she closed the door. I heard her lock it. As I waited I could feel the heat working through my clothes, penetrating my scalp. All around me the sun was reflecting brightly. It was almost five minutes before the door was opened again and Eleanor stood there.

“Harry, are you all right?”

“I’m fine.”

“I saw everything on TV. CNN.”

I just nodded to that.

“It’s so sad about Marty Gessler.”

“Yeah.”

And then nothing for a long moment before she finally spoke.

“What are you doing here, Harry?”

“I don’t know. I just wanted to see you.”

“How did you find this place?”

I shrugged.

“I’m a detective. Was, at least.”

“You should have called me first.”

“I know. I should have done a lot of things but I didn’t, Eleanor. I’m sorry, okay? Sorry for everything. Are you going to let me in or should I just melt out here in the sun?”

“Before you come in I have to tell you, this is not how I wanted to do this.”

I felt a deep downward tug in my chest as she stepped back and opened the door. She raised her hand in a welcoming gesture and I stepped into a foyer area that had arched doorways leading in three different directions.

“It’s not how you wanted to do what?” I asked.

“Let’s go into the living room,” she said.

We took the middle arch and stepped into a large room that was neat and nicely furnished. In one corner was a baby grand piano that caught my eye. Eleanor didn’t play, unless she had taken it up since she’d left me.

“You want something to drink, Harry?”

“Um, water would be good. It’s hot out there.”

“It usually is. Stay here and I’ll be right back.”

I nodded and she left me there. I looked around the room. I recognized none of the furniture from the apartment where I had once visited her. Everything was different, everything was new. The rear wall of the room was comprised of sliding glass doors that looked upon a screened-in pool area. I noticed that surrounding the pool was a white plastic safety fence that people with children put up as a precaution.

Something suddenly began to click about all of Eleanor’s mysteries. The obtuse answers, the car trunk that couldn’t be opened. People carry fold-up strollers in their trunks. People with children.

“Harry?”

I turned. Eleanor was there. And standing next to her was a little girl with dark hair and eyes. They held hands. I looked from Eleanor to the girl and then back and forth again. The girl had Eleanor’s features. The same wave in her hair, the same full lips and bobbed nose. There was something about her demeanor that was the same, too. The way she looked at me.

But the eyes weren’t Eleanor’s. They were the eyes I saw when I looked in the mirror. They came from me.

A sudden rush of feelings welled up in me, not all of them good. But now I could not take my eyes off the girl.

“Eleanor…?”

“This is Maddie.”

“Maddie?”

“Short for Madeline.”

“Madeline. How old?”

“She’s almost four now.”

My mind shifted back. I remembered the last time we’d been together before Eleanor left for good. In the house on the hill. It could have happened then. Eleanor seemed to read my thoughts.

“It was like it was supposed to be. Like something was supposed to make sure we never…”

She didn’t finish.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I wanted it to be the right time.”

“When was that going to be?”

“Now, I guess. You are a detective. I guess I wanted you to find out about it.”

“That’s not right.”

“What would have been right?”

Twin skyrockets were going off inside me. One left a trail of red, the other green. They were going different ways. One anger, one warmth. One led to the heart’s dark abyss, a devil’s punchbowl filled with recriminations and revenge I could dip my cup fully into. The other led away from all of that. To Paradise Road. To bright, blessed days and dark, sacred nights. It led to the place where lost light came from. My lost light.

I knew I could choose one path but not both. I looked up from the girl to Eleanor. She had tears on her face and yet a smile. I knew then what path to choose and that there is no end to things of the heart. I stepped forward and squatted down in front of the girl. I knew from dealing with young witnesses that it was best to approach them on their level.

“Hello, Maddie,” I said to my daughter.

She turned her face and pushed it into her mother’s leg.

“I’m too shy,” she said.

“That’s okay, Maddie. I’m pretty shy myself. Can I just hold your hand?”

She let go of her mother’s hand and extended hers to me. I took it and she wrapped her tiny fingers around my index finger. I shifted forward until my knees were on the floor and I was sitting back on my heels. She peeked her eyes out at me. She didn’t seem scared. Just cautious. I raised my other hand and she gave me her other hand, the fingers wrapping the same way around my one.

I leaned forward and raised her tiny fists and held them against my closed eyes. In that moment I knew all the mysteries were solved. That I was home. That I was saved.

The author would like to gratefully acknowledge the following people for their work in improving and correcting this novel: Michael Pietsch, Pamela Marshall, Philip Spitzer, Joel Gotler, Terrill Lee Lankford, James Swain, Jane Davis, Jerry Hooten, Carolyn Chriss, Linda Connelly and Mary Lavelle.

Michael Connelly is a former journalist and author of the bestselling series of Harry Bosch novels and the bestselling novels Chasing the Dime, The Poet, Void Moon, and Blood Work, which was made into a movie starring Clint Eastwood. Connelly has won numerous awards for his journalism and novels, including an Edgar Award.