Liam McShane found himself seated in the packed Number Seven train, navigating the route from Woodside Station to Forty Second Street. Clutching his bag tightly against him, he mentally reviewed his plans. After rummaging through his bag, he pulled out a small black notebook and struggled momentarily to free a pen from his pocket. The time on his watch read five fifty-six, a detail that struck him oddly. He opened the notebook and jotted down, “5:56” followed by, “Must make time to call Professor Crawford.” Then, he fished a folded note from his pocket and copied Dr. Crawford’s number into the notebook.

“There’s something I’m overlooking,” he reminded himself, adding beneath his first note, “I need to arrange a trip to Hadleyburg.” He paused briefly before scribbling a question mark at the end of that note. With vacation days approaching, he pondered how to justify such short notice to his superiors. Despite feeling somewhat like a character in a fanciful quest with an uncertain outcome, the thrill of potential discovery filled him with excitement.

Meanwhile, Malcolm was arriving at his brownstone, carrying a bag into the foyer where he set it down on a vintage table that belonged to his father.

“I’m home,” he called out, and Paula emerged from the kitchen, quickly approaching him for a kiss.

“How did it go?” she inquired.

“It went well,” he replied with a sigh. “I showed him the document, and he made a copy. He wants to meet the young man who discovered it.”

“Does he think it’s authentic?” she asked.

“He’s unsure. He wants to examine it further.”

“You know my stance on this. I don’t believe anything good will come of it.”

“I understand. But it was something I felt compelled to do.”

“So, what was this Mark Ryan like?” she probed.

“A bit too intense for my taste, somewhat intimidating, but he certainly seems knowledgeable.”

“Knowledge isn’t inherently good,” she reminded him. “Dinner is ready.”

“I’m starving,” he acknowledged.

Entering the dining room, he found a beautifully set table adorned with wine glasses and candles. He pulled out a chair for her before sitting down himself.

“I have good news,” she announced.

“What’s that?” he asked.

“I’ve been invited to design a brochure for the Katsanos exhibit at the Met.”

“How did that come about?” he questioned.

“It appears he specifically requested me. He remembers our last conversation when he was in New York. You’d think with so many interactions he’d forget, but he recalled our discussion about the number tattoo on his arm and shared his experiences in Dachau.”

“Yes, I remember.”

“He also mentioned coming to New York in the late fifties and designing a few department stores.”

“That rings a bell,” he replied.

Paula poured them each a glass of wine.

“Is he traveling from Greece this time?” he inquired.

“I’m not sure, but I’ll find out,” she said.

Just then, the phone rang.

“Let it ring, Malcolm. They’ll call back,” she urged.

“I can’t stand ringing phones. It won’t take long,” he insisted, standing to answer it.

“Professor Crawford, it’s Liam McShane. I brought you the manuscript yesterday.”

“Yes, Liam, where are you calling from? It’s quite noisy.”

“I’m at the Times Square subway station. Apologies for the disturbance, but I’m pressed for time, and this is the best moment to reach you.”

“How can I assist you?” Malcolm asked.

“Did you have a chance to review the document?” Liam queried.

“Yes, I did take a look.”

“When can we sit down to discuss it?” Liam pressed.

“To be candid, I’ve given the manuscript to Mark Ryan, the conspiracy writer. He wants to meet with you. Are you familiar with him?”

“Of course. I’d be happy to meet him. When?”

“I’ll get in touch with him. Call me back around eight, and I’ll see if we can arrange something.”

“I’ll do that.” Liam ended the call.

“Malcolm, is it wise to get more involved in this? You have your reputation to think about,” Paula cautioned.

He returned to the dining room.

“All I’m doing is connecting two individuals. I thought you’d appreciate that I’m stepping back from it.”

“So, you won’t be meeting with them?” she asked.

“I’m uncertain about what I’ll do. Let’s just enjoy our meal and move on,” he suggested.

Liam boarded the Number Two train heading uptown to his apartment. For the first time in months, he felt a surge of excitement, relishing the brief escape from his mundane routine. Upon arriving home, he found Max waiting in the corridor, checking the time to note it was precisely seven PM.

“I don’t know how you manage it. You’re as precise as a Swiss watch,” Max remarked.

“It’s the constant cycle of tedious tasks,” Liam replied while unlocking his door.

“Did you return my plates?” Max inquired.

“Mission accomplished. If you can wait a moment, I’ll grab the receipt,” Liam said, tossing his backpack onto the chair.

“Could you clarify what we’re supposed to be doing?” Max asked.

“How many times have you called me to witness your experiments? I never sought an explanation. I told you we’re investigating something significant. Did you reach out to your ex-girlfriend? I was planning to have Paul contact Lucy, but she never liked me. Lisa, who works in the Empire State Building, did.”

“Yes, I called her. She’ll meet us in the lobby at eight,” Max confirmed.

“That gives us an hour to grab a bite and run a few errands. Did you run the plate for me?” Liam asked.

“Yeah, here it is.” Max produced a slip of paper from his pocket and handed it to Liam.

“Peter Atkinson, 666 Algonquin Ave, Parsippany, NJ. How symbolic,” Liam read.

“I hope this information serves a purpose and that I didn’t risk it for nothing,” Max replied.

“There’s a strategy to my madness. Aren’t you excited about a real investigation instead of chasing down medical claims?”

“I’d be more thrilled if you would clarify what we’re actually investigating,” Max shot back.

“For now, I can only say we’re pursuing shadows,” Liam said.

“As long as we’re not chasing our tails,” Max commented.

“What do you know about Nigel Fox?” Liam asked.

“The old psychic, or alleged psychic, who believed his dreams could foresee the future? I hope this isn’t about that story. I thought we were done with it since he passed away months ago.”

“And where did he die?”

“In a small Virginia town called Hadleyburg. Why the sudden interest in deceased psychics? You never mentioned him while he was alive. This is quite surprising,” Max replied.

“I wish I could provide more clarity, but I need you to trust me for the moment.”

“For now, but I reserve the right to demand details if I’m not satisfied with the direction this is taking,” Max warned.

“I understand.” Liam paused. “Let’s get something to eat. I don’t want to be late.”

He retrieved the satchel and draped the strap over his shoulder. Max followed him out, and Liam locked the door behind them.

“So, what do you feel like eating?” Liam asked.

“A couple of slices of pizza would be quick,” Max suggested.

“Alright, pizza it is,” Liam agreed.

They turned left upon exiting the building and walked toward a pizza place at the end of the block.

“I haven’t felt this excited since college,” Liam remarked.

Thirty-odd blocks away, Malcolm and Paula were still savoring the eggplant parmigiana and sipping red wine.

“You haven’t told me your thoughts on it,” Paula urged.

“As always, it’s wonderful,” he replied.

“I was a bit worried about using too much garlic and not enough cheese,” she admitted.

“You’re a perfectionist when it comes to these things, but it was delicious,” he complimented.

“I have a special dessert for you. It’s a gourmet strawberry preserve I found at Zabar’s, called MacGyver, made in a small Virginia town. It’s amazing.”

She returned from the kitchen with a plate of rye toast lavishly spread with preserves, the surface dotted with small strawberry chunks.

“You wouldn’t believe how pricey it is—nearly ten dollars a jar. But it’s the best strawberry preserve I’ve ever tasted.”

Initially skeptical of her enthusiasm for the food, he was pleasantly surprised as each bite proved more delightful than the last.

“Oh, this is incredible! The texture, the flavor, the balance of sweetness and tartness. It’s the most delectable thing I’ve had in ages,” he declared.

“I wish I could have a dozen jars of it,” she confessed.

“You mentioned it’s only available at Zabar’s.”

“Yes, and they had a tasting display there. They must have sold at least half a dozen jars in the half hour I was present. I can show you the jar if you’d like.”

“No, that’s not necessary.”

He took another piece of toast, savoring the flavor that radiated joy across his face.

“If I keep this up, I’ll gain five pounds. It must be loaded with sugar.”

“That’s the surprising part—there’s no processed sugar at all, just strawberries and seasonings.”

“This will be my last one,” he said, finishing the last piece. “Then I should call Mr. Ryan.”

“You’re still pursuing this?” she asked.

“I have to,” he replied.

“I wish you’d reconsider. I can’t express how worried I am about this.”

“There’s nothing to be concerned about. It’s simply a phone call.”

Malcolm extracted the paper with Ryan’s number from his pocket and slowly dialed.

“Hello,” Mark Ryan answered.

“This is Professor Malcolm, Mr. Ryan.”

“Yes.”

“I’ve spoken to my former student, and he’s eager to talk with you.”

“How about tonight?” Ryan proposed.

“I’m uncertain. He’s supposed to call me at eight,” Malcolm replied.

“My apartment is 143 West 23rd Street, number 16a. Ask him to come around ten o’clock; I have an errand to run and will be back by then. That’s 143 West 23rd Street, number 16a.”

“Understood,” Malcolm acknowledged.

“You’re welcome to join him, Professor Crawford. I believe you might learn something,” Ryan added.

“Goodbye.” Malcolm hung up.

He noted Ryan’s address beneath the phone number on the paper.

“I understand your concerns about this. It’s a little unsettling,” he thought, returning the paper to his pocket.

He struggled to remember the last time he felt such apprehension about an endeavor. Realizing he had enjoyed relative comfort over the past decade, with the only significant trauma being his father’s death, he reflected on the past five years as remarkably stress-free. Yet, with something as simple as a phone call, he sensed he was on the verge of initiating a challenge to that comfort, a thought he quickly dismissed as it surfaced in his mind.