Lost Light

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.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
    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.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR
    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.

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    Document creation date: 03.08.2009
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