In a satchel, she packs clothing. Going-away things. Toothbrush, shampoo, soap. Her little monkey. Needed things. She slings the satchel over her shoulder and heads downstairs to the foyer. At the end of the hallway, his bedroom door is closed. As always. She walks to the door and turns the knob. She pushes the door open and stands in the entrance. His smell breaches her nose. A subtle tang. Something musky. Feral.

She is not allowed in here.

At the door, she drops the satchel and walks to his dresser. She opens the top drawer. Inside are two pens and some paper. Envelopes. Tidy stacks. Nothing touching. She closes the drawer and opens the wardrobe. The shirts hang clean and pressed. Eight shirts. Button-front flannels, arranged by shade, from gray to black. In the dresser are socks. White briefs. Jeans folded.

Nothing is here. No sign of what he knows.

But he knows something. Oh yes, he does.

On top of the desk, a solemn row of books stands in order, arranged by author name. Hemingway, For Whom the Bell Tolls. Books of philosophy. Machiavelli and Nietzsche and Sun Tzu. Thus Spoke Zarathustra. A tome of Victorian poems. Leather bindings, elegant craftsmanship. Tall and mystical wonders held upright by bookends of dark burnished metal.

His altar.

This house is yours, bird. But not my room.

Go anywhere else. But not my room.

She turns. His bed is Spartan. Flat cotton; sharp, folded edges. Pillows neatly placed. On the nightstand sits a decanter of whiskey. An ashtray. His lighter.

Nothing.

There is nothing. Nothing here.

Under the bed. Beneath the desk. Behind the door. She looks in all these places. Nothing is here, nothing is here.

Blood. In her temple, jumping.

He could return at any moment.

I thought you might want to say something. To convince me.

Convince you of what?

Convince me of everything.

Seconds flutter along, flit away.

She heads for the door. And stops and turns.

There is no reason to do it—no good reason—but she does it anyway. She follows an intuition that says look here and goes to the side of the bed where he sleeps and lifts the pillow. Lying there is her calculus book. The hot-air balloon on the cover.

She opens the book. To be sure.

Yes, her name is there.

She steps back, a wild throb in her head—where puzzle pieces align, drop into place.

So. He knows.

Where you’ve been.

Who you’ve been with.

She takes no time to consider but instead strides to the neat row of books and flings them from the desk. The heavy bindings spill to the wood floor, break open. Thudding sounds jolt the air. She strikes the bookends and they knock over, thump to the floor, and tumble to vanish beneath the bed.

Silence again.

My bird. You’re a good girl. Aren’t you?

She stands, looking at the books. The battered covers. Broken spines.

Still silence.