She rummaged through the cardboard box and withdrew a folder: WHITNEY. I watched in horror, unable to stop her, as she began unpacking marked-up articles from the Seattle Post-Intelligencer and laying them on Mort’s desk.

“He studied all your work,” she said. “Look, some of these are ten years old.” She held up a sheet for my inspection.

“You see? He underlined his favorite passages.”

I caught Louise’s wet little eyes. The confession swelled up to my mouth, and when I made to speak, I didn’t know what would come off my tongue.

“I’m glad you mentioned these,” I said, picking up the page she’d laid closest to Mort’s hand. “I was going to ask you about them, but wasn’t sure it’s appropriate. I enlisted him to help me put together a book proposal.”

“Really?” Mort said. “What kind of book?”

“Sort of a Selected Essays,” I said, my hands casually gathering up the pages from the desk. “I’d asked him to read over some of the older work and suggest revisions.”

“Even your stuff from the P-I?” Mort asked.

“Typical Lane,” I said. “Overzealous. He thought there was good stuff there. I couldn’t convince him otherwise.”

I held the papers at my side, out of sight, as if she might forget, but Louise reached out for them, exposing the ball of Kleenex in her palm. I laughed awkwardly and looked down at the pages. They felt glued to my hand.

“I know it’s strange to ask,” I said, “but would it be alright if I held on to these for a while?”

She kept her hands outstretched and I had to relinquish the pages. Louise straightened them and put them back in the folder.

“I don’t know,” she said.

“Please, it would mean the world to me.”

“I don’t know what to say.”

“Whitney,” Mort said, “maybe this isn’t a good time—”

“No,” said Louise, “it’s okay.”

I braced.

“I’d like them back,” she said.

“As soon as I’m finished.”

“It’s a part of him.”

“I know.”

She handed me the folder. Tears overcame me as I held the copies close, the overhead light refracting in my eyes like white knives.

“Oh, poor girl.” She pulled me in for another hug.

“I’m sorry,” I said, my face buried in the perfumed crook of her neck. “I’m sorry.”

9.

As soon as I got home, I opened the folder and emptied out the pages.

The destruction became so mindless that when I neared the end, I almost didn’t notice the pages changing from my articles to materials about Dr. Kriss. I guess Lane started the file before the subject of his investigations shifted.

There was a copy of the Rubicon report, a printout of the forum post where he’d learned about Sunshine Ray, and a few pages of notes I’d never seen. One in particular caught my eye.