She was curious as to what Jerry was up to. Planning on sneaking back over the road to Mrs. Smith’s house? She wondered what he would do next, and concluded he was going to rape the old lady. It would be such a classic Jerry thing to do. She wouldn’t care if Jerry did sneak over there to cut the old lady’s tits off; however, she did worry about how that would reflect on her. She would always be the woman with the rapey husband, and what country club was going to let her in with that label?

There was a flash of lightning and the night sky lit up, she saw her reflection in the window, her cheating whore face looking back, and she slipped out of her chair and was at the door to Jerry’s office when the thunder struck, so loud and so close she held her breath and waited for the pictures to fall off the walls, and when they didn’t, she opened the office door, stepped inside, and closed it behind her.

The first place she looked for Jerry’s Madness Journal was in his desk drawers. Nothing. She checked the couch where she thought Jerry was spending too much time—behind the cushions, under the couch, then she sighed, pushed the desk aside, used the screwdriver from Jerry’s drawer to lift the floorboard, and reached under. Her plan was to read it and rip out some of the pages so he would forget what he had been up to. It amused her to screw with him.

She still had her arm under the floor when Jerry walked in.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m worried about you, Jerry,” she said, pulling her arm out as though withdrawing it from the mouth of a shark, but what she really meant was I wish you didn’t live here anymore. You may be the best-looking man I’ve ever seen, but you’re holding me back.

“Are you looking for my journal?”

“I want to make sure you’re okay.”

“It’s my journal!” he said, and he sounded like a whiny little bitch, and God how she was resenting him. “It’s like a diary, Sandra, you can’t read other people’s diaries.”

“You said I could.”

“When?”

“A few hours ago,” she said, but it was a lie. It was one of the benefits of late. She could say anything now and he couldn’t be sure if she was making it up. She thought about telling him how she had been bumping uglies with Greg from yoga class just to break his heart, then put her theory to the test to prove he wouldn’t remember. She wished Greg was here. That guy knew how to bend a body.

“If that was true, then why are you looking for it?” he asked. “Why didn’t I just hand it to you?”

“Because you couldn’t remember where you had put it.”

He nodded then, and she realized something—he really couldn’t remember where he had put it.

“I was trying to help you, Jerry.”

“How do I know you’re not lying to me?” he asked, and he started to cry again, and seriously, she was one sobbing fit away from stabbing him in the throat.

“It’s the dementia, honey,” she said, and by now she had stood back up. She reached out and Jerry fell into her embrace, and she started rubbing his back, and she knew he was feeling loved, but really all she was doing was wiping the cobwebs off her fingers from under the floorboards. “Would you like me to carry on helping you look for it?”

“No,” he said. “It’s okay. It’ll show up—it always does.”

“Shall we head back up to bed? Belinda is coming over early in the morning.”

“Who’s Belinda?”

She sighed. She had gone through this already. “Belinda is the florist.”

And . . . . . . . . . scene.

The irony is at that point you really had lost the journal. You’d forgotten all about the hiding place, and there was even an entire day in there (which you spent in bed) that you had forgotten you have a journal.

You did find the journal, obviously—it happened without you even thinking about it. It’s where you’ve been hiding the gin. Problem is you’ve been out of gin for the last week. Hans came over yesterday. You hadn’t invited him because Sandra said you couldn’t see him anymore, but he showed up unannounced and Sandra couldn’t bring herself to ask him to leave. You sat out on the deck. He was wearing a T-shirt that said Drugs Not Hugs. Summer is approaching and the days are getting longer, and you need to enjoy every sunset that you can now because you never know when it will be your last—at least the last one you’re conscious of. Hans, by the way, is coming to the wedding. Sandra was against it, but ultimately it was Eva’s decision—to her Hans is Uncle Hans. He isn’t Prison Hans. When Sandra was somewhere deep inside the house Hans pulled a couple of bottles of gin out of his bag.

Here you go, buddy. I’ ll always be there for you, you know that, right?

I think Sandra is having an affair.

What, Sandra? No way, buddy, he said.

But—

But nothing, Jerry. Trust me, she loves you man, really loves you. I wish I had somebody in my life who was even a tenth of the woman Sandra is. When it comes to love, buddy, you’re the luckiest man in the world.

But—

He put his hand out in a stop gesture. He looked annoyed. Seriously, Jerry, don’t piss me off, okay? You don’t see it because you’re too close, but all of this—it’s hard on her too. I know Sandra doesn’t like me, but don’t go saying stupid shit like that, okay? It’s this bloody Alzheimer’s of yours, buddy, it’s scrambling your brain.

Did you set fire to the neighbor’ s car?

He laughed and shook his head. You know Hans really well, but even you couldn’t tell if that was a yes or a no.

Good news—you found the journal, and you’ve got another week’s worth of gin.

Bad news—the way Hans defended Sandra, the way she makes herself absent when he’s around—it’s pretty obvious what’s going on here. It’s hard to know who to feel more betrayed by, your best friend or your wife.

His name is Jerry Grey and he’s a crime writer and none of this is real, none of this is real.

Blood on Jerry’s hands.

His name is Henry Cutter and he’s a crime writer and none of this is real, and even he’s not real, he’s a figment off Jerry Grey’s imagination. Jerry uses him to make money. Jerry uses him to tell stories.

Blood on Jerry’s shirt.

His name is Jerry Henry and he is a dementia patient and this is a dementia dream, a dementia attack, and none of this is real, he’ s in a nursing home and everything is okay.

This isn’t the nursing home. This isn’t his house. Nothing is okay.

Jerry Grey. Crime writer. Not real.

The dead girl on the floor is a stranger. She is facing him. There’s a knife on the floor next to her, this stabbed girl and he wonders, he wonders . . . who is she?

He wonders . . . why is he here?

He wonders . . . where is here?

He is sitting on a couch in a lounge, just him and the dead girl on the floor, surrounded by nice furniture, nice paintings, all the mod cons of life you can’t take with you. The curtains are closed. The girl is naked. Her hair is blond and her skin is pale and her eyes are blue, so open and so blue. There’s a bathrobe on the floor a few feet away from her. It’s speckled with blood. When he tries to stand he finds that he can’t. His legs aren’t with him, and, and . . . who is this woman? He looks down at his hands. His left one is curled into a fist. He opens it. Inside is a pair of earrings. Diamond earrings. There is blood on his right hand. He closes his eyes and the woman disappears. He feels tired. He wants to sleep now, he wants the dream to disappear. He sways a little, and then he lies down. He reaches around with his eyes closed and finds a cushion. He tucks it under the side of his face. He curls his legs up and rocks softly back and forth, relaxing.