I had paused for a breath, to wipe sweat from my brow, to allow the other thought to come up to the surface and bloom, when I saw that at the other end of the tub two long, gray feet were groping for purchase, slipping and sliding on the white porcelain.

That is not good, I thought, and I brought the paperweight down again, and this time I held it there with all my strength, until the gray feet shuddered and stopped. Through the water, a red tide rode toward them. And then the thought broke over me, immense, and I knew that this was what had eluded me for so long. I am two fingers! I thought. I am the steeple. I am, I thought, and it was the last thought that came to me before the room shuddered and went black—I am the Death that lives within the walls, these walls that have such a long and storied history of Death.

When I opened my eyes, the room was dark again, almost black. Eventually, I stood up; I switched on the light. I surveyed the scene.

In the tub was an arrangement that seemed hardly to belong to this current reality. Now that she was dead, the woman in the tub had changed again. She was no longer my mother, that was certain, but whether she was Kirstie or the guest lecturer again, I couldn’t tell. I felt spent, exhausted like I hadn’t been in years. How much nicer would it be, I thought, if I were home, sitting at my dining room table, watching the fog roll in from the sea. I would almost certainly have made my sandwich by now, and I would be without obligation, with nothing to do but watch the fog come creeping up the lawn to reach through the pines like long white fingers.

Some time should be spent here, I thought, even so, and I took one last look around. This, I thought as I turned, looking at everything with care, was just the right amount of death. I would not make the mistakes they had made. I would not be too heavy-handed. Someone coming after me, someone in the midst of their own investigation—they would understand; they would not be left like I had been, my nose buried in my father’s coats, harassed by the bleating of the real estate agent. I had left things just right. But just in case, I thought, twirling on my feet, paperweight in hand, coming out of the bathroom—just in case, because you could never be sure of the caliber of other people, I would leave them a little clue. It was a shame, undoubtedly, to stain the lovely suede of the briefcase with blood, but it could not be helped. Then I buckled the bright gold buckles and slid it under the desk.

31