Quentin tried reassuring himself: During his interview with Morasco and his partner, he hadn’t told any out-and-out lies. Dr. Bloom seemed like he was in pretty good spirits, he had said. Which had been true, at least at first. He told me he’d be happy to serve as an expert on my podcast, but said he wasn’t as up on current theories as he once was. Also true. We exchanged numbers and agreed to talk later. True. But.

At the end of the interview, Quentin had shaken hands with Morasco and his partner, who had even told him he’d be “happy to provide law enforcement expertise for your podcasts.” And Quentin had felt emboldened enough to ask a question. I was just wondering where you got my number. You know . . . to call me in the first place.

It was in his phone. The partner had said it before Morasco could stop him.

Dr. Bloom’s?

Yeah. He typed your number in, but never hit send.

Quentin spotted his rental car and made for it, trying not to think about how he’d never know what Dr. Bloom might have wanted to tell him, how that was the true source of this disquiet, this powerless feeling. And how, on many levels, it upset him more than the man’s death. “What kind of a person am I?” he said as he reached his car. He said it aloud and without thinking, as though he were recording one of his journal entries.

And the answer came from deep within. Your mother’s son. Your grandfather’s grandson. That’s what kind of a person you are.

He put his key to the lock, but it didn’t work. He turned it around, tried again, then took a look at it to make sure he wasn’t going insane from lack of sleep, mistaking his real car keys for his rental car ones.

“Excuse me,” said a voice behind him. An older, female voice, honeyed and soothing.

Quentin turned. He didn’t know her, though he had noticed her earlier. He’d seen her hugging Robin—a gray-haired woman with perfect posture and tanned, weathered skin, dressed all in black. She’d stood out because she’d seemed sadder than most of the other guests, and up close her sorrow was all the more evident, her drawn, lined face stained with tears, her laser-blue eyes wet and glowing. But her voice was calm. Most everyone has something surprising about them, and in this woman’s case, that was it: the sunshine-sweet sound of her, coming out of that rugged exterior. “That’s my car.”

“Oh . . .” Quentin stepped back. “Oh, I’m sorry.”

The woman smiled, her face softening and becoming something different. Something familiar. Where do I know her from? Quentin didn’t have an answer.

“Rental cars,” she said. “They all look alike.”

“Do you mind my asking,” he said. “How do you know the family?”