Her eyes closed. The furrows in her brow smoothed themselves over, and her features seemed to settle slightly and grow less tense. Several minutes later, I heard the beginnings of a gentle snore.

Well, I thought, this is lucky, as I watched the lapels of the lavender suit jacket rise and fall. The whole evening had been unbelievably lucky, in fact. One thing had led so easily to the next, and now the most unpleasant part of it had just fallen asleep, fully clothed, on her bed. I could not have asked for a kinder set of circumstances. I was now free, I reflected, to move about the room, to examine it for clues.

Clues! I smiled a small, private smile to myself. What a childish word to use. But all the same.

On the other hand, I thought, as I rose to my feet and began to move slowly about the small, generic room, perhaps it’s unwise to overstate it; this was not a crime scene, I reminded myself. My father, that he had been to this hotel, that was likely to be true. And kept a souvenir, also true. And here was a good question: Why? There was something inherently suspicious about a man in need of a hotel room in the same city in which he lives. That was undeniable.

But I had no way of knowing which room he had stayed in. If it had been this one, the coincidence would be remarkable—and even so, it would have since been cleaned and inhabited; a thousand different people could have stayed in it.

I moved to the heavy ocher curtain and drew it back slightly, revealing only a view of the parking lot under the black night sky, flanked by the long oleander hedge. I began to feel somewhat discouraged, and my investigation of the room did not improve my mood. Peering into the darkness at the dim forms, I came to no judgment more noteworthy than my initial one: that it was a small and suitably furnished hotel room, outfitted in the same new and impersonal style as the lobby, though less aggressively modern.

The desk! I thought. At least there is the desk! There could be something there. I walked over to it and, taking care to do so quietly, pulled open the drawer. Inside was a bundle of writing paper and envelopes. Each sheet was the twin of the one I had at home—a square of notepaper with the simply drawn cross and steeple. I traced one slowly with my finger.

I imagined my father, standing where I stood, sliding open the drawer of the desk, taking out a sheet of writing paper, writing on it—here was a complimentary pen: Saturday, 10 am, MC. Perhaps he had been on the phone? With MC himself? Herself?—then folding it in half and putting it in the pocket of his coat.