My father worked on the parts of the trains that nobody ever sees. Sometimes he’d sit me in the cab of one of the railroad cars and I’d pretend that I was driving the train into a deep long tunnel. He said I always wanted to run things.

“Thanks, Mama. Delicious, like always.”

Actually, I can hardly taste a thing. It’s like all my senses have been dulled or turned off. For a while there, I was afraid that I would shut down completely and never recover. But Mama’s waffles are starting to bring me back.

She smiles and pats my hand. “Good to know I still have the touch.” She eyes me over the rim of her coffee mug. “What about your work?”

“I’m still on sabbatical from Yale.”

“No, I’m talking about your book, the one you and Garrett were working on.”

I put down my fork and push my plate away. “The book is dead, Mama. It died with Garrett. Anyway, Nottingham canceled the contract.”

She gives me a quiet nod.

“Besides, I’m afraid working on that book is what got Garrett killed.”

The first few hours after I saw his dead body are a blur. The Brattleboro police questioned me twice, once at the scene, once at the station.

Of course I told them about Tony Romero, the thug from Providence. About how he’d beaten up Garrett over a book we were writing. They took down his name and contacted the Providence police. Naturally, Romero had an alibi. He had been in his private club, Raymond’s Tavern, the whole day.

I had as many questions for the cops as they had for me. For one thing, where was Garrett’s laptop? He never went anywhere without it. Were there any tire prints by the cabin? Did anybody else see anything? And even though it hurt me to ask: Exactly how had Garrett died? They told me it was a single gunshot. Said it would’ve been over in a second. I’ve chosen to believe that. I can’t bear the thought of him suffering.

They asked if Garrett did drugs. I said nothing stronger than Tylenol. They told me that there were drugs on a table in the cabin. High-grade coke. Looked like it was being cut and repackaged for distribution. I told them it was obviously a setup, which meant it had been a planned execution. They ordered a tox screen anyway.

I didn’t tell them about Garrett’s meeting with the First Gentleman. I believed that it had happened, but I didn’t have any proof, and I was afraid of coming off as some kind of government conspiracy nut. I was worried that they’d sic the Secret Service on me. When the detectives asked what our book was about, I told them it was about politics. A work in progress. I said we didn’t even have a publishing deal.

Enough.