About fifteen minutes later, finished with lunch, I put my dirty dishes in the sink. Upstairs, I brushed my teeth while Diesel lolled on my freshly made bed. When I first moved back I had made it myself on the days Azalea was due, vaguely embarrassed to have her doing it instead. She quickly informed me that if she wanted me to do her job she’d let me know, and after that I left the bed-making to her. She did it even better than I did anyway.

I glanced at the clock—a few minutes before twelve-thirty. There was no sense rushing back to the archive, because the boxes wouldn’t be delivered for at least another hour or so. Spotting Godfrey’s latest book on the bedside table, I decided I might as well read a bit of it to pass the time.

I picked up my reading glasses and the book and settled into a comfortable armchair near the window. Diesel appeared to be sound asleep, for which I was grateful. Sometimes he insisted on sitting in my lap while I read, and that could get uncomfortable because of his weight.

Godfrey’s book was titled Moon of the Hunter. I skipped reading the jacket blurb because sometimes it gave away too much of the plot. I turned past the title page and started reading his acknowledgments. I always found them interesting. Occasionally an author gushed, thanking everyone he knew. Others made poignant remarks about loved ones. Sometimes they were just plain funny.

Godfrey was pompous. He thanked his various agents—in New York, Hollywood, and London—along with members of his staff in California, including Gail Enderby, for ensuring that his life ran smoothly. He mentioned a couple of technical experts he had consulted, and that was it.

The last time I’d read one of his books was probably six or seven years ago, and as I read the first page, I remembered why I stopped. The graphic violence in the opening paragraphs was shocking in its intensity, but somehow compelling. I didn’t like the fact that I found it compelling and wanted to read further. But I ignored that and kept turning the pages. Godfrey knew how to pace a story.

A hundred pages later I remembered to check my watch. It was now almost quarter to two. By the time I reached the archive, the boxes of Godfrey’s books and papers should be waiting for me. I stuck a bookmark in the book and laid it aside, albeit a bit reluctantly. Moon of the Hunter was the story of a serial killer who lured young women to his isolated cabin in the mountains of east Tennessee and the determined sister of one of his victims who was intent on tracking him down and killing him.