It also explains why she has been spending so much time away from home over the last few weeks. You don’t want her to know you’ve figured it out, so mum’s the word, Future Jerry. The under-the-couch hiding spot was a pretty stupid place to try and hide the journal. Just goes to show the disease is affecting you more than you’d thought. Time to hide it with the writing backups. You know where that is.

Nurse Hamilton calls the lawyer, whose name Jerry knew half an hour ago but can’t remember now. This Swiss cheese of a memory reveals some things and hides others. He listens to the phone call, but only gets one end of it; when she hangs up she fills in the blanks.

“The diary would be considered evidence, especially if it shows a clear intent to shoot Sandra. Your lawyer says we need to be careful,” she says. “However, he also said that since it’s your personal diary, you have every right to take a look at it. Then he wished us the best of luck and to keep him updated.”

“It’s not a diary,” Jerry says. “It’s a journal.”

She calls Eric next and instructs him to meet them at the house. It’s a short conversation, and Nurse Hamilton nods occasionally during it. When there’s a break in traffic, she turns the car. They drive in silence, and the closer they get to his house the more things begin to become familiar. He can’t remember the last time he was here, and with that thought comes the dark little add-on that the last time he was here would have been when he killed Sandra. Which he believes is still up for debate. Hopefully the journal will give them some answers.

They park outside. Nurse Hamilton puts her hand on his arm to stop him from climbing out. “Let’s wait for Eric. He won’t be long.”

“We can’t wait,” he tells her. “I have to know. I have to know.”

“Just a few more minutes.”

He feels like opening the door and making a run for the house, but instead he agrees to wait. To distract himself, he tells her about the house, how he found it all those years ago, how he was driving with Sandra to meet a different real estate agent at a different house when they drove past this one with an Open House sign out front, the details as clear in his head as if it were yesterday, making his frustration at forgetting more recent things that much greater. They knew as soon as they walked inside the house they could see themselves living their lives out there.

In a way, they both did, Jerry thinks.

A woman dressed in a light blue dress with matching shoes approaches from across the street, walking apace, suggesting her message to them needs to be delivered urgently. Jerry recognizes her.

“What is he doing here?” Mrs. Smith asks, and the he makes Jerry sound like he didn’t just shoot his wife, but ate her too.

“And you are?” Nurse Hamilton asks.

“I am the neighbor that . . . that murderer was harassing before he shot his wife. For all I know I was his intended victim. I’m lucky to be alive,” she says, then pauses for a few seconds to let the enormity of that situation sink in. “I’ve called the police. They’re on their way.”

“Perhaps you should wait inside for them,” Nurse Hamilton says.

“I have every right to stand in my street,” Mrs. Smith says, “he should be back in the nuthouse he got sentenced to.”

“There’s no need for talk like that,” Nurse Hamilton says. “Please, I really think it best you wait inside rather than upset Jerry.”

“Why you would have a cold-blooded killer in your car? I—”

“Thanks for your time,” Nurse Hamilton says, and she winds the window back up.

Mrs. Smith’s mouth forms an O shape, which then becomes a well I never look. She turns and heads up her driveway but doesn’t go inside. She stands by her front door and watches, glancing at her watch every few seconds.

“We should go,” Nurse Hamilton says. “We can always come back.”

“But we won’t come back, will we?”

Before she can answer, Jerry opens the door, and when she grabs his arm this time he shrugs it off. By the time she catches him he has already reached the front door of the house and knocked. He’s never knocked on this door as a stranger, only when he’s locked himself out getting the mail, or if he’s lost his keys. He’s never knocked and not known who was going to answer.

They hear footsteps approaching. “Let me do the talking,” Nurse Hamilton says.

A guy in his midforties opens the door, a pound overweight for every year of his life. He has bed hair that’s black on top but gray along the sides, black bags under bloodshot eyes, a white T-shirt that says Sneezes for Jesus under an unbuttoned blue shirt.

“Can I—” the man says, but that’s all he says, because then he stops and stares at Jerry. “You’re Henry Cutter,” he says, and gives a huge smile before thrusting his hand out so fast Jerry almost jumps back. His nose sounds blocked. “Oh my god, Henry Cutter! Or I suppose I should call you Jerry Grey, right?”

“Right,” Jerry tells him.

“I’m a huge fan,” the man says, pumping Jerry’s hand up and down. His grip is sweaty. At the same time a cat appears in the doorway, a longhair tortoiseshell that pushes itself against Jerry’s legs before doing the same to Nurse Hamilton. “Your biggest fan even,” the man says, before turning away and sneezing into a handkerchief. “Sorry, hay fever,” he says. “Name’s Terrance Banks, but people call me Terry,” Terrance says, talking quickly to get through his sentence before sneezing again. When he’s done, he carries on. “I bought this place because it was yours and I thought it might help inspire me. Oh geez, I’m already blabbering! Jerry Grey—on my doorstep!”

“You’re a writer?” Jerry asks, wanting the common ground, knowing it will help with why they’re here.

“Trying to—” he says, then starts sneezing again, his body hunching over with the first, the second, the third sneeze. “Trying to be. I’ve got a room full of rejection slips, which I figure puts me halfway there, right? Next step is a room full of books.” He laughs then, a self-depreciating laugh that makes Jerry like him. “I guess it must seem kind of weird, right, me buying the place because it was yours, but it was also a great investment, you know? Property normally is.”

Jerry figures it is, easy to see the connection between murder, devaluation, time for people to move on, and profit.

“I’m Carol Hamilton,” Nurse Hamilton says, and reaches forward to shake Terrance’s hand, and Jerry wonders if it’s the first time he’s heard her first name. “We’re hoping you wouldn’t mind if Jerry took a look around the place.”

“Mind? No, no, of course not! Please, please, come in!”

They head inside and the cat follows. Terrance closes the door and sneezes a couple of more times. “Sorry,” he says. “Coffee? Tea?”

“We can’t stay long,” Nurse Hamilton says. “I’m sure you’re aware of Jerry’s circumstances?”

“Yeah, yeah, of course. It’s awful, really awful,” he says, leading them deeper into the house. “It was just so horrible.” He shakes his head, looking distressed at the direction of the conversation. “You were right in the prime of your career. Such a voice, such a talent, just gone like that. If there’s anything I can do,” he says, and lets the sentence hang there as if there really is something he can do.

By now they’ve stopped walking, Jerry having pulled up outside what used to be his office. The door is closed.

“Actually there is,” Nurse Hamilton says, and Terrance’s face brightens. “Jerry left something here he was hoping he could have back.”

“You want something back? Sure, sure, happy to help. We sold most of the stuff off, but some we kept. It went with the house pretty good.”