October, 2005.

ON A SUNNY SAN FRANCISCO MORNING after a string of foggy days, I sat on the red exercise ball in my office, wondering how I was going to pay the rent. When Grace Valdez walked in the door I stood up, and the ball rolled away from me on its slow trajectory along the sloping floor.

"I saw your sign," she said. "I want to talk to you about finding something I've lost."

I held out my hand. "My name is Sadie. Sadie Garcia Miller." We shook hands. Hers was cool and dry.

"Grace." She paused. "Valdez."

"Please have a seat."

She surveyed the rolling ball and my chairless office. I pulled out a folding chair and set it up for her. I retrieved the ball and sat back down behind my desk.

Grace Valdez looked like she had blown across town from a more upscale neighborhood, the Marina or Pacific Heights. She looked about ten years younger than me, around thirty. Her jagged-cut hair was shot through with subtle blond highlights, and her tawny skin seemed to glow. She wore designer jeans and a nice pair of strappy heels.

"What is it you're looking for?" I asked.

She picked at her thumbnail cuticle. "My brother...."

"Ms. Valdez." I hesitated. I needed the money. "I'd like to help you, but I don't find missing persons. I find lost objects. I can refer you to an excellent private investigator."

"No—no." Her voice was breathy, Marilyn-Monroe-like." I mean, my brother has what I'm looking for. The book. My brother has it."

"A book." Maybe I said it too loudly. Ms. Valdez flinched. Pretty jumpy for a woman in search of a simple book. But then, nothing is as it seems in my line of work. People say they're looking for an object, but they're really looking for a whole lot more. A way to fill up the emptiness, a way to cover the gaping hole. I'm an expert on that.

"Mind if I smoke?" I said.

She smiled for the first time and, taking out a pack of Camel filters, offered me one.

"Thanks."

I lit our cigarettes with the snap of my lighter.

She drew on her cigarette. "This is nice. You don't get to smoke indoors much anymore."

"I know." I usually didn't smoke in the office, actually, because most of my clients or would-be clients would run screaming from the smell of cigarette smoke.

But this was clearly an exception. I reached into the desk drawer, brought out the ashtray, and put it between us. "This might seem obvious, but—have you asked your brother to give the book back?"

"Of course. He says he doesn't have it. But he does, I know he does. He stole it from me, the—" she stopped herself— "jerk."

"I see. What's the value of the book?"

"I don't think it has much financial value."

"Sentimental value, then. You want that particular book, no other copy will do, is that right?"

"That's right," she said, and her eyes darkened. "The book is inscribed to me from my mother. She used to read it to me when I was a child. Since she's been gone, I have always treasured it."

"Gone?" I said. "Do you mean—"

"Heart attack. When I was twelve."

"I'm sorry." I didn't tell her we had something in common. I chased away the hollow feeling in my chest.

"Ms. Valdez. I have a few questions, if you don't mind." I opened my notebook. "When was the last time you saw your brother?"

"It'll be two years ago this Christmas."

"Did you ask him then if he had the book?"

"No—it went missing after that." Her voice was edged with resentment.

"And you contacted him?"

"Many times, but he never responded."

"Did something happen between you that caused him to break off communication?"

Her eyes shifted to the right. I followed her gaze. Where she was looking there was nothing interesting, only an oak filing cabinet; no pictures on the walls, no bookcases, no potted plants. And I knew, just like my grandpa taught me, she had to be hiding something.

"I don't know," she said.

"Where does your brother live?"

"He used to live in Fresno, in the house where we grew up. But when I call, I either get the machine, or one of our tías picks up—they live there too."

"Did you ask your tías?"

"They won't talk to me either."

"And why is that?"

"It doesn't matter," she said, waving away a puff of smoke.

I wanted to tell her yes, it does matter. Sometimes the smallest detail leads to the missing object. Instead I let the silence hang between us, hoping it would draw her out.

"My aunts thought," she said, "Joey and I were having ... an improper relationship. We weren't. They never believed me. I became the scapegoat. Know what I mean?"

"They blamed it on you and not your brother?"

"Of course," Grace said, with a bitter smile.

"Yes, we always get blamed, don't we?" I shook my head.

She nodded. There was a hardness in her eyes, and under it, a hint of hurt.

We smoked in silence for a time.

"What's the name of the book?"

"The Journey, by Renata Holland."

I made a note of it. "When was it published?"

"I'm not sure exactly, but—I think in the sixties."

"What's it about?" I drew a quick sketch of a book in the corner of my notebook.

"A young girl who goes on a dangerous journey to rescue her father." A shiver ran through me. A girl trying to save her father. "That sounds intriguing," I said. "So it's a—Young Adult book?"

"Yes, that's what they call it now."

"What does the cover look like?" I asked.

Her gaze turned inward. "A pale green background. A red-haired girl perched in a tree, looking up at the sky, at a full moon and stars. And it has one of those gold medal things on the cover, a Millhouse Award."

"And the inscription—what does it say?"

"To my daughter, Graciela."

In the whisper of sadness that flickered on her face, I caught a glimpse of a little girl, always on her own, an outsider searching to belong.

"It's a special book, then. A keepsake," I said.

The light in her eyes shifted, and she looked at me directly. "That's a good way of saying it. Yes, it's my talis— "Her face colored.

"I have to get it back. I can't stop thinking about it, like when you need a cigarette, except you can't have one but you can't stop thinking about it either."

I perked up. The nature of the client's fixation always contains clues to the lost treasure. To find the object of desire, follow the obsession. "When you think about the book, where do you see it?"

"I picture it ... in my mother's hands. As she read to us."

An image came into focus of a warm, maternal woman with a soft, curvy body, a coil of braided black hair pinned up with tortoiseshell combs, her reading glasses perched on her nose. Along with the picture came a feeling of sadness, washing over me and settling in my chest like a bad cold.

"Thanks," I said. "These questions help me find things."

"I understand. I'm psychic too. I've tried and tried, but I can't visualize where the book is now."

I started to tell her I'm not psychic, I just use my senses and intuition to lead me to the lost item. But I left it alone. Better to let my actions speak for themselves.

Pulling out my contract, I told her I'd be happy to take her case. She took out her reading glasses and read the contract word for word. She didn't blink at the fee schedule or the upfront retainer. We signed the agreement and...