I worried she carried a gun or a knife. Her weapon of choice was the deadliest of all—bourbon. The bottle sits on its side on the floor across the room, some of its contents dribbled out on the tile. I pat the side of my pants, searching for the knife. I feel lucky I didn’t fall on it and stab myself.

But there’s nothing in my pocket. No knife. I check the floor around me as well.

Nothing.

Has Madeline taken it?

Fragments of the night dance in my mind, like images viewed through a curtain. Someone stood over me. Someone checked my pockets.

The back door hung wide open, the cold air blowing in.

Someone said my name.

Wasn’t it a man’s voice? Was Madeline alone?

“I’m going to stand, Grendel.”

He wags his tail, encouraging me. Everyone needs a cheerleader in their life.

I look over. The back door is closed. Wasn’t it open at one point?

I push against the tile with both hands, bend my knees. I move slowly, getting my feet under me. So far, so good . . . I straighten up. When I’m all the way up, the room tilts, sliding to the left like I’m in a fun house.

“Crap.”

I steady myself against the counter, take a few deep breaths. In a moment, the room stops spinning. I see my abandoned sandwich, which looks even more unappealing in the harsh morning light.

“I’m okay,” I say. “It’s okay.”

Grendel’s tail wags. He comes over, nuzzles against my leg. I know he’s hungry. I know he has to pee.

“I see you there,” I say. “And I know what you’re thinking. But this isn’t because I was drinking bourbon. This is because someone hit me with a bourbon bottle. You saw it, didn’t you? Thanks for protecting me, by the way.”

I feel capable of moving around. I should see a doctor, but how would I explain why I’m there? You see, my former student whose book I stole and who might have murdered someone . . .

“All right,” I say. “Let’s go for a walk, and then I’ll feed you.”

I decide to change my shoes before we go. I’m still wearing what I wore the day before, what I wore all day at work and while at the police station. And I have to pee, probably as much as Grendel does.

I take a step into the hallway, heading for the bathroom. The linen closet door is open, the towels and sheets and spare soap spread all over the floor.

“What the . . . ?”

I step back and look out into the living room. The couch cushions are thrown around, the books dumped off the shelves. The coat closet by the front door stands open, the bin of gloves and hats emptied, its contents flung across the carpet like there’s been an earthquake.

“Oh, shit.”