“I don’t have any information on your case,” Marlee tells him, “but I’d say that you should get going on what’s wrong as soon as possible. Don’t you think so?”

“I do,” Hodges says heavily. “I’ll keep the appointment for sure. And thank you.”

He breaks the connection and stares at his phone. On the screen is a picture of his daughter at seven, bright and smiling, riding high on the backyard swing he put up when they lived on Freeborn Avenue. When they were still a family. Now Allie’s thirty-six, divorced, in therapy, and getting over a painful relationship with a man who told her a story as old as Genesis: I’m going to leave her soon, but this is a bad time.

Hodges puts the phone down and lifts his shirt. The pain on the left side of his abdomen has subsided to a low mutter again, and that’s good, but he doesn’t like the swelling he sees below his sternum. It’s as if he just put away a huge meal, when in fact he could only eat half of his lunch and breakfast was a bagel.

“What’s going on with you?” he asks his swollen stomach. “I wouldn’t mind a clue before I keep that appointment tomorrow.”

He supposes he could get all the clues he wants by firing up his computer and going to Web MD, but he’s come to believe that Internet-assisted self-diagnosis is a game for idiots. He calls Holly, instead. She wants to know if he found anything interesting at 1588.

“Very interesting, as that guy on Laugh-In used to say, but before I go into that, ask your question.”

“Do you think Pete can find out if Martine Stover was buying a computer? Check her credit cards, or something? Because her mother’s was ancient. If so, it means she was serious about taking an online course. And if she was serious, then—”

“Then the chances she was working up to a suicide pact with her mother drop drastically.”

“Yes.”

“But it wouldn’t rule out the mother deciding to do it on her own. She could have dumped the pills and vodka down Stover’s feeding tube while she was asleep, then got into the tub to finish the job.”

“But Nancy Alderson said—”

“They were happy, yeah, I know. I’m only pointing it out. I don’t really believe it.”

“You sound tired.”

“Just my usual end-of-the-day slump. I’ll perk up after I get some chow.” Never in his life has he felt less like eating.

“Eat a lot. You’re too thin. But first tell me what you found in that empty house.”

“Not in the house. In the garage.”

He tells her. She doesn’t interrupt. Nor does she say anything when he’s done. Holly sometimes forgets she’s on the phone, so he gives her a prompt.

“What do you think?”

“I don’t know. I mean, I really don’t. It’s just . . . weird all over. Don’t you think so? Or not? Because I could be overreacting. Sometimes I do that.”