Harry had no memory of being at Caitlin’s motel room, but he did remember the ambulance ride, and he knew that he’d tripped and fallen, even though it was a fuzzy memory.

There was a persistent, low-frequency ringing in his ears, and the inside of his head felt swollen, almost like a balloon had been blown up inside his skull. Earlier, one of several doctors who’d come in to question him had asked him what town he was in, and he was totally surprised that he hadn’t immediately known. She’d moved on to other questions, but before she left, he’d said, “Kennewick. I’m in Kennewick, Maine.”

She’d smiled and told him that was correct.

Detective Dixon came by, and Harry told him that Caitlin was being watched. It was all he really remembered.

Later, he opened his eyes, and saw Alice staring at him so intently and with so much love that he closed his eyes again, pretending to fall back asleep. He could smell her perfume in the room, and he heard a soft, deep voice in the background that sounded like John Richards. He kept his eyes closed. He’d been awkward around Alice ever since they’d had sex, the night before that terrible morning when he had discovered the dead body of Grace McGowan. After that long, surreal day, after being questioned repeatedly by the police, both local and state police detectives, Harry said to Alice, “About what happened . . . last night.”

She’d looked at him with a tired, blank stare. He noticed, not for the first time, that the surfaces of her eyes, from some angles, appeared almost flat. It gave her a distant gaze even when she was looking right at him.

“You want to pretend it didn’t happen,” she said.

A little bit startled by the accuracy of her statement, Harry said, “No, yes. I just think it shouldn’t happen again is all.”

“Sure, it never happened.” She half smiled.