At three o’clock in the afternoon, Lindquist breaks off to go collect the children from school. She seems to have forgotten that I’m not to be trusted, or maybe she thinks that these things she’s told me, these confidences, have won my loyalty. Before she leaves, I ask if I can take her picture, and she doesn’t even hesitate. Go ahead, she says. She’s vain enough to turn the right side of her face to the camera, however.

When she leaves, I turn restless. I read the notes I scribbled in my notebook. I rise from the wicker sofa on the lanai and return across the short stretch of lawn to the cottage, which has been faithfully cleaned by Lani, the housekeeper. I toss the camera and the notebook on the bed and take the key for the suitcase from my pocketbook. The key fits; the lock clicks. But when I lift the lid, I know right away that someone’s been inside, someone who has been very careful to leave everything as she found it.

Nothing’s missing. My clothes are all there, my underthings, my few vanities. I am not so foolish as to keep anything valuable in this suitcase. I’ve been to war, I’ve lived in various godforsaken corners of the world, some lawful and some not, and the first thing I do when I come to rest in a new lodging, I find a hiding place for what’s important. And you see? Wasn’t I right?

I close the suitcase and go to this hiding place of mine—I’m not telling you where it is—and reach inside. To my relief, all is where I left it. The leather diary, thank God, and underneath it, the smooth, cool handle of my pistol.

Lindquist’s children barrel across the lawn an hour later, making straight for the kitchen door and the cookies on the other side of it. Lindquist calls on them to stop and say hello to Miss Everett, our guest.

At the word guest, they pull up like a pair of ponies and turn to me with amazed expressions. “We’ve never had a guest before,” says the girl, who’s an inch taller than her brother and presumably the elder.

“No doubt.” I stick out my hand. “Janey Everett. I’m a photojournalist.”

“Is that a journalist who takes pictures?” the girl says.

“Exactly right. I’ve always said the kids are quicker than the grown-ups.”

“I’m Doris.” She shakes my hand. “And this is Wesley. He’s only seven.”

“Oh, he’ll grow out of that soon enough. Hello, Wesley. Come along, my hand’s not going to shake itself.”

Wesley giggles and shakes my hand.

“They are handsome specimens,” I say to Lindquist. “You must be awfully proud. Do they do anything interesting?”

Doris says, “I play the piano and jump my pony. Wesley’s pretty dull, though.”

“I ride horses too!”