At the time, I didn’t understand why I was taking him to meet Keigo. I can’t express it well, but when I saw Mr. Ishibashi in the snow, clinging to Keigo’s legs, it was like I was smelling the scent of a human being for the first time in my life. I’d never noticed the scent of humans before, but for some reason Mr. Ishibashi’s scent came through clearly. Compared to Keigo, he looked so small, so small it made me sad.

I spend most of my time holed up in my room, watching movies, so I’ve seen tons of people crying, being sad, angry, and full of hatred. But this was the first time I realized that people’s emotions have a distinct odor. I wish I could explain it better, but when I saw Mr. Ishibashi clinging to Keigo’s legs, it was like, I don’t know, like I could really feel this whole crime for the first time…

The feeling of Keigo’s foot as it kicked Yoshino out of his car, the cold of the ground as she touched it. The sky Yoshino saw as the criminal strangled her, the feeling of her throat under his hands as he wrung her neck. I could suddenly feel it all, as clear as day.

A person disappearing from this world isn’t like the top stone of a pyramid disappearing. It’s more like one of the foundation stones at the base. You know what I mean?

Truthfully, I don’t think Mr. Ishibashi could ever hurt Keigo. Not then, when they confronted each other, or later on in their lives. Keigo will always come out on top. Still, I wanted Mr. Ishibashi to stand up to him and say something. I didn’t want him to silently lose out.

As she walked from the bus stop in front of the hospital, Fusae took her worn purse from the bag hanging heavily on her wrist. Inside was a sheaf of supermarket receipts, four-thousand-yen bills, a large five-hundred-yen coin all by itself, and a handful of other coins.

The only snow left along the seaside road was underneath the trees lining it. On the road itself the snow had melted and the cars splashed muddy water.

Fusae put her purse back in her bag. The bus driver’s words were helping her along, but something else had burst within her. She had finally shaken free of the fear that had controlled her these past few weeks. She left the seaside road and headed toward the back road that led to Dutch Slope.

She was trying to recall the time when Katsuji’s second cousin Goro visited with his family, from Okayama, on a vacation to Nagasaki. They weren’t all that close to them, but Katsuji was enthusiastic about it and showed them all over town, then took them to a Chinese place for dinner. Yuichi must have been in elementary school back then, so it would have to be twenty years ago.

Goro’s wife was a frumpy, strong-willed woman who was constantly complaining about how high the entrance fees were to places they visited, how expensive the coffee was. They had a daughter, Kyoko, who’d just gone into junior high, and she and Yuichi played together during the trip.

Fusae recalled showing them Dutch Slope. She was tired of the complaints and so she walked ahead and caught up with Yuichi and Kyoko. As she did, she overheard Kyoko say, “Yuichi, you’re lucky your grandmother’s so pretty.” Yuichi didn’t seem interested and went on kicking pebbles as he walked, but Kyoko continued. “I wish my mom was like your grandmother and wore a pretty scarf when she went on a trip.”

Fusae was embarrassed, and kept her distance. The scarf she was wearing was cheap, and these words of praise were coming from a girl in junior high, but Fusae couldn’t hide the pride she felt.

Afterward, on visits to open-house days at Yuichi’s classroom and parent-teacher-conference days, Fusae was never without a scarf around her neck. Nobody ever told her how nice she looked again, but without the scarf she might not have had the courage to be among the young mothers.

As she walked down the cobblestoned backstreet toward the shopping district, Fusae wondered how long it had been since she’d bought a new scarf. Not just a scarf-she hadn’t bought any new clothes in ages. What was the last thing she had bought? Was it that imitation-leather coat she got at Daiei? Or the light blue sweater from the local clothing shop?

She’d walked down this street for years, but now she noticed a clothing store she’d never seen before. The place was small, the entrance nearly blocked by a wagon piled high with sweaters that were obviously catering to a middle-aged female clientele.

Fusae stopped and gazed inside the shop. Perhaps because it was still light out, the inside of the store looked dark, with a couple of old mannequins set up as though they’d like nothing better than to flee. Large price tags were attached to the clothes on the mannequins, the printed price crossed out in red, the reduced price written over it. But that, too, was crossed out, without a new price written on the tag.

Fusae walked over to the wagon outside and picked up the nearest sweater, a purple one. She held it up and saw that it was too small for her. The woman at the register stood up, and after a moment’s hesitation, Fusae returned the sweater to the wagon and went inside the dark store.

Fusae merely nodded to the clerk when she greeted her, and as she fingered the white jacket one of the mannequins was wearing, the woman came over and said, “That material feels very nice. It’s so soft.”

The original price on the tag said twelve thousand yen, but that was crossed out, and the reduced price of nine thousand was crossed out as well. She turned her eyes and saw colored scarves hanging next to the register. Noticing where Fusae was looking, the clerk said, “Those are on sale, too.”

Fusae walked further back into the store and picked up a bright orange scarf. There was a mirror to one side reflecting her in her dark gray coat. Fusae slowly wrapped the scarf around her neck. Perhaps a bit too bright for her, she thought, but the color went surprisingly well with the coat.

“How much is this?” she asked.

“The color looks really good as an accent,” the clerk said while she straightened the scarves. “Let me see,” she added, checking the price tag. “This one would be three thousand eight hundred.”

Fusae had no makeup on, and the scarf was all it took to make her face look much brighter. She had only four thousand yen with her, but she unwound the scarf from her neck and handed it to the clerk. “Here you go. I’ll take it,” she said.

“Here you go.”

The policeman in the driver’s seat held out his hand, which held a handkerchief. The handkerchief, pure white cotton, looked strange in his rough fingers. He must be married. The handkerchief was nicely ironed and had a faint scent.

Mitsuyo was seated in the backseat of the patrol car. Beside her was the plastic bag full of food she’d bought at the convenience store. The heaters clouded the windows and she couldn’t see outside. She took the handkerchief and wiped away her tears.

When the patrolman had her sit in the backseat, Mitsuyo cried. He wasn’t sure what to do, so he asked about her health, about where Yuichi was, and then contacted his precinct via radio. But Mitsuyo was so shaken she could barely hear her own voice, let alone his.

She held the handkerchief against her face, and the patrolman hung up the radio and said, “Miss Magome, we’re going to go to the station first. A policewoman will be there and we’ll talk more.” He started the engine.

The patrol car pulled out of the convenience-store parking lot. Mitsuyo could just make out the clerk and the customers in the store watching them. She realized that she was trembling and pulled the bag of groceries onto her lap and hugged it tightly.

Would Yuichi realize what was going on? Would he run away?

The car was heading toward the intersection where the logging road went up to the lighthouse. Turn left here and they could see the thicket where Yuichi was hiding. Mitsuyo couldn’t bring herself to look in that direction, and held on more tightly to the shopping bag. She squeezed it too hard, and a sweet bun popped out and fell to the wet floor near her feet.