You argued about it. Of course you did. You told her the truth, and the truth is you were throwing it out because you knew how it would look if you got found with it, even though it wasn’t the actual can used. She said you were throwing it out because you had done what Mrs. Smith had accused you of.

I knew it was you, she said, and she walked over to you, crouched in front of you so she could look you in the eyes, and put her hands on your knees. I didn’t want to believe it, and I tried not to believe it, but I knew it. Oh, Jerry, what are we going to do? Things are steadily progressing now.

I didn’t do it, you said, concerned at her use of steadily progressing. Are you going to tell the police?

She shook her head. Of course not. But we have to do something. We can’t let Mrs. Smith pay for all that damage when we know you did it.

I didn’t do it.

And we need to look at other options to make sure this doesn’t happen again.

Like what?

She gave you a sad smile that told you there’s a lot of heartache and heartbreak on the way. Let’s discuss it in the morning, she said.

So there you go. Tomorrow you’ll get to hear what those options are.

Good news? There isn’t really any good news today.

Bad news? Your parents are dead. You’ve known this for a while, since they died, actually, but it’s probably a good thing for you to know. Dad drowned in the pool, and Mum got the Big C a few years later. That saying how you can never really go back home? It’s true, partner. Especially in your case.

They take a fresh sample of his DNA, as if the previous sample could have been corrupted, even though Jerry knows the chances of that are even slimmer than him getting his old life back. They wipe a cotton swab on the inside of his cheek and he feels like a character in one of his novels, the one where the innocent man is accused of murder and his protests just make him look guiltier. He’s not asked any more questions because his answers can’t be considered relevant. Nothing he says, according to his lawyer, is relevant. This is who he is now, he thinks. Irrelevant Jerry. Nurse Hamilton comes close to having to be restrained when she sees the mark on his face. The detective whose fingers he broke is nowhere to be seen.

Nurse Hamilton sits in the interrogation room with Jerry, the two of them alone while others outside discuss his future.

“It’s going to be okay,” she says, and she squeezes his hand and they stay that way, waiting to see what happens next.

What happens next is Jerry’s lawyer enters the room and tells them they’re free to go, and that tomorrow, under his supervision, Jerry will be interviewed by a specialist. The detective whose fingers he didn’t break escorts them downstairs without a word. Nurse Hamilton is parked a block away, and the detective walks with them to the car. Jerry climbs in and the detective and Nurse Hamilton chat for a few seconds and he wonders what they’re saying and figures it can’t be anything positive. At least the drive back will be nicer than the ride here.

When Nurse Hamilton gets into the car she tells Jerry once again that everything is going to be okay, then they’re on the road.

“Do you really think I hurt that woman?” he asks her a minute later. They’re at a set of lights that are green, but traffic is at a standstill thanks to a family of ducks up ahead crossing the road. Eva used to love seeing sights like that when she was a kid. She’d pin her face and hands to the window and talk to them as they wandered past.

“Honestly, Jerry? I don’t know. I just don’t know.”

“Then why aren’t you afraid of me?”

“Look at me, Jerry. Do I look like I’ve ever been afraid of anyone?”

The ducks clear the road, heading away from the direction of a park and towards a fish-and-chip shop, making Jerry picture a scenario where the ducks are ordering dinner, and a different scenario where they’re becoming dinner.

“I wish I could remember back then,” he says. “I used to keep a journal. Where is it?”

“Nobody knows what happened to it.”

“You mean it’s not at the home?”

“Nobody found it. Not even the police. You must have hidden it somewhere.”

“Maybe,” he says. The movement of the car, the day’s events, the silt is still clearing. Something is coming to him. “What happened to my house?”

“It was sold.”

“There are people living in there now?”

“I assume so. Why?”

“Because there was a place in my office where I used to hide things,” he says, nodding now, the image clear. “Maybe we can go there and look? The journal must be there.”

“I’m sure the hiding place was found by the new owners,” she says.

He shakes his head. “If the police couldn’t find it, the new owners wouldn’t have either.”

“The police probably didn’t know they were looking for it,” she says. “But you haven’t mentioned this before.”

He wonders why that could be. Perhaps he didn’t mention it before because he didn’t want to know. Perhaps enough of him remembered that it was best he forget. Only now he needs to know. “It was under the floor. If we find it, it might tell us what happened.”

“I don’t know, Jerry.”

“Please?”

“Even if it is there you might not like what you find. I don’t want this to sound mean, but perhaps it’s best you leave it alone. We should just call the police and let them handle it.”

“What if I didn’t shoot her?”

“Is that what you think?”

He throws his hands up. “There’s one big plot hole in all of this,” he says. “If I’m going to start confessing to crimes, why the fictional ones? Why not the real ones? I think it’d be the other way around.”

She doesn’t have an answer for that.

“What if the journal clears me? Please, when was the last time I was like this?”

“Like what?”

“So aware. So me. This Jerry right now, he wants to know what happened. He’s hopeful he’s not the monster you all think he is.”

“I don’t think you’re a monster,” she says. “And to answer your question, it’s been a while since you were this clearheaded. A few months at least.”

“My daughter thinks I’m a monster,” he says, and it’s all making sense now. The distance between them. “That’s why she never comes to visit. She hates me.”

“She doesn’t hate you,” Nurse Hamilton says.

“She doesn’t even call me Dad anymore.”

“It’s hard for her.”

“I need the journal. I deserve those answers,” he says, and if he has remembered on previous good days not to mention the journal because it’s as bad as what everybody suspects, and can’t remember that now, then so be it. “If I can find it, I can apologize for it. It won’t mean much to anybody, but I have to start somewhere,” he says, and if he can apologize, if he can start down the road of being forgiven and being honest, then maybe the Universe will go about cutting him some slack.

She thinks about it quietly. He can see her going through the options. He wants to add more, but he’s frightened anything else may push her back from the decision he needs her to make.

“Okay,” she says, and then she pulls out of the flow of traffic to the side of the road to a stop. “Let me call your lawyer first. I want to clear it by him, and I want to make sure I’m not doing anything illegal.”

“I’ll be okay, I promise.”

“Don’t get your hopes up, Jerry. There may not be anybody home, and even if there is we don’t know they’re going to let us in, and even then the journal may not be there.”

“I know. I know.”

“And if we do find it, the police will want it. They may consider it as evidence. They may not give it back to you.”