Kirstie looked down at her feet, as if deciding what to say. “There’s something in the bathtub.”

“What?”

She shook her head. “I wouldn’t go in there if I were you,” she repeated.

I nodded. None of that was particularly helpful, and I had my own question to ask.

“The last time I was here,” I began, “there was something in this briefcase.”

Kirstie looked at the briefcase and shuddered. Then, collecting herself, she said, “That’s right. There was something. It’s been moved.”

“Moved where?” I asked.

She closed her eyes. When she spoke again it was in a thick, dreamy voice, quite unlike her own.

“It’s on its way back here.”

“But where is it now?”

The water in the bathroom was rushing loudly now, so that I had to raise my voice to be heard above it.

“What did you say?” said Kirstie.

“Where is it now?” I practically shouted, over the sound of the veritable waterfall coming from the bathroom.

Suddenly the room was pitch-black, I could see nothing, and I was sitting on the bed alongside Kirstie, a fact that I knew only because I could hear her breathing very close to me. These developments made the thread of the conversation even harder to follow.

“It’s where you’ll find it,” Kirstie whispered.

“But where will I find it?”

But though I meant to speak the words, I had the impression that I had not, in fact, said anything at all, that though I had opened my mouth and moved my lips, no sound had emerged. The darkness was thick all around us, pressing in, as if all the air had been sucked out of the room, and the only living thing in it was the heat of Kirstie’s breath, its quick inhale-exhale caressing my skin. More and more I was convinced that I had not succeeded in asking my last question, and I was just about to try to ask it again when I was startled—genuinely startled—by the sound of applause.

11

I woke, wide-eyed, and sat up in bed. Nearby, some unseen time-keeping device ticked inexorably. What a peculiar dream, I thought, and then, a little later: What an admirable synthesis of all that has recently passed. Eventually, I lay down again and closed my eyes, but I slept only fitfully and woke before dawn, when I rose and ate breakfast in the dark.

I had been sitting at the table with my toast and coffee, my thoughts still full of my dream, when I realized that it was Saturday. The whole day stretched out before me, as unpeopled as a prairie in winter.

But, I thought now, there is no reason to feel that way on this weekend of all weekends, because there is work to be done, work on the investigation into your father’s death, and what could be more worthwhile than that?