I turned on a light, figuring that with all the steel shutters down it would not be visible to the world outside. I walked down the hallway, past the living room and into the sad simple bedroom in which I had spent the last fifteen lonely years. I hated this house. Hated everything it represented. I was determined not to spend another night beyond this one here.

The trauma of the last few days – and the insane drive since early this morning – forced me into the shower and off to bed. Another bad night. I was up at five. I dragged myself back into the shower. I made coffee. I smoked two cigarettes. At seven there was a text from Todor:

They are letting me out today. Can I come by around 7 tonight? Happy to take you out to dinner.

I thought about this for a moment. I decided: there was still one last piece of Todor business to deal with. I texted back:

See you at 7 p.m. No dinner.

Not because I was busy, but because I would never sit across a table from Todor again.

The text I most wanted to read was awaiting me on my phone. Klara had landed safely in Amsterdam. Someone at a tourist information desk at the airport had given her the name of a student hotel a little way from the center but only fifteen euros a night … and there’s a tram and a metro right nearby and I can be at the Centraal Station in about ten minutes – see, I’m spelling it the Dutch way! – which puts me really close to everything. Tomorrow I’m going to start looking for a room to rent in someone’s apartment. I am tired and still in what I guess could be described as weird-ass shock after all that went down. And I am missing my poppa terribly.

I sent a reply, saying how relieved I was to hear from her and how I was on the end of my phone 24/7 if she needed me. Please send me a daily bulletin of what’s going on with you. Meanwhile take a deep breath and read the text I’ve just forwarded to you from your mother. It will, I’m sure, enrage you. I just felt strangely sorry for her when I read it. But try to see it as just further evidence of her craziness. And know I am with you always.

I got dressed into the one suit I owned – a brown-striped job that looked around twenty years out of date and which I could just about squeeze into (I really was going to have to lose some weight and cut down on the smokes). Before forcing myself into the jacket I put on a white shirt and black tie, then, reluctantly, I got into the Volvo and let the GPS lead me to Mid-Wilshire and the offices of Flouton, Greenbaum, McIntyre and Milkavic.