"If you just open the door," Claude said astringently, "I wouldn't have to be telling you, you could see for yourself."

And I did.

Later that night, when the only light in my house was moonlight, I sat up in bed. Next to me, Jack lay only on his side, his hair tangling around him and his chest moving silently with his breath. His face, asleep, was peaceful and relaxed, but remote. Unknowable. I could only know the man he tried to be when he was awake. Who knew where his dreams took him, how far into his mind and heart? Farther than I could ever penetrate.

I stood, parted my curtains, and looked out the window. The lights in the upstairs apartment that had been Deedra's were still on; I guess the police had left them that way. It was a strange feeling, seeing those lights on again. On occasions I'd noticed them before, I'd always had a contemptuous reaction; she's entertaining again, I'd thought, and reviewed once again the host of risks she'd run in her promiscuity.

But it was not her weakness that had caused her death; it was one of her strengths that had killed her.

I wondered what that meant, what lesson could be drawn from Deedra's death. I considered for a moment, but it was either meaningless, or its moral beyond me. I remembered Deedra as she'd appeared in my dream, the remote control in her hand. Looking at a film of the inside of her coffin.

I let the curtains fall together and turned back to the bed.