Where to begin. Well, you know the beginning. The Big F taking you right past when you should have shot yourself, right into the heart of the WMD. The speech (two million hits now) and then the knife, and you and Sandra fought about that knife. You convinced her not to go to the police because, after all, what had you done? Perhaps nothing. Perhaps you had found it. Or stabbed a giant rat—and the world wouldn’t miss a giant rat now, would it?

After finding the knife, you and Sandra spent most of the afternoon watching the news. You said very little to each other. You just watched the news and waited for the call. You didn’t know who the call would come from, just that it would. Mrs. Smith was still alive, because Sandra had found an excuse to go over and check on her, and it wasn’t anybody from the wedding party, but that still left nearly four hundred thousand other people in the city. The call didn’t come. The rat scenario was building some strength. The idea had learned to walk. It was wobbly, but with enough time it would have a life of its own.

The idea died this morning. It died when Eva called and asked if we had heard. Heard what? Sandra asked. Heard about Belinda, Eva said. What about Belinda?, Sandra asked, though no doubt her mind was a little train, chugging its way through different scenarios, pulling into the My husband killed her station, and yes, that’s exactly where she disembarked. Belinda was dead. Somebody had stabbed her to death in her own home. Eva was crying on the phone, and Sandra was too, and even you cried, J-Man. You cried for Belinda, you cried for Sandra and Eva, and you cried for Past Jerry and for yourself.

The world is an awful place. Who would do this? Eva’s voice was coming through the phone, saying these things over and over. Sandra just kept saying she didn’t know, she didn’t know, but she did know. Her skin had gone so white she looked as though she had been stored in the fridge for the last two months. They spoke for ten minutes. You sat in the dining room while Sandra sat at the kitchen bar, her back to you for most of the call, and you watched the clock. It was ticking away the amount of time Belinda had been dead. It was ticking away the final moments of your life too. You knew it then, just as you’d suspected it the night before—you knew if you had hurt somebody, you would pay the ultimate price. You clock-watched while your mind constructed the final scenario. You would use the gun. It would be quick.

When Sandra got off the phone she continued to sit at the breakfast bar. She wouldn’t turn to face you. She was crying. Her body was shaking softly as she tried to contain it. You so desperately wanted to go to her, to put your arms around her, to hold her as she cried, but she would never allow it. And what would you say even if she would? If you touched her, she would scream. Or die. You just knew it. She was already on the edge. So you stayed sitting at the table, tracing your finger around the marks you had scarred into it with the fork.

What do we do now?

They were her words, her back still to you. She was like cracked glass, one slight knock and she would shatter.

I didn’t kill her, you said. I couldn’t have.

You were attracted to her. It was as clear as day, she said. It was only clear because she had been reading the journal. She wasn’t done. You have the gall to accuse me of having an affair, where you’re the one all this time who was obsessed with somebody half your age. I knew it, I knew it because you couldn’t take your eyes off her, and you even went to see her at work, Jerry! At work! And . . . oh my god, she said, and she spun the bar stool so she could face you, and you knew what was coming—it was another piece of the puzzle slotting into place. That day she brought you back home, she went to her house first! You knew where she lived!

Sandra—

Don’t, she said, and put her hand up in a stopping gesture. There is nothing you can say, Jerry, nothing, she said, and she was right.

She stormed out of the room. You didn’t call after her. You couldn’t. What could you have said? Even now she’s upstairs either having just called the police, or still building up the nerve to do so.

Future Jerry, you feel like a character in one of your books. You’ve done this. You own this.

So this is it. You’ve still got two suicide notes to write, one to Eva and one to Sandra. This journal will end up being nothing but the ramblings of a madman. Soon to be a dead man. Then it’s time to dig the gun out from its hiding place. Sandra will have to face the horror of running downstairs and discovering you, but at this stage it seems she’ll see that more as a relief than anything.

Good-bye, Future Jerry. If there’s another life waiting for you, hopefully you can do better in the rewrite.

The garage door closes behind them. They both stay sitting in the car in the dark.

“Last year you told me you were starting to talk to yourself,” Hans says. “You were holding conversations between you and Henry Cutter. Do you still do that?”

A year ago that would have embarrassed him. Now it’s just an everyday thing. “Sometimes. Why?”

“Henry is the one with all the big ideas, right? The one with the book ideas, the one who can put a plot together.”

“It doesn’t really work that way,” Jerry says. “He’s just a name, it’s like I put my author hat on when I go to work, but it’s still me who comes up with the ideas. Henry isn’t a different personality,” he says, but sometimes he isn’t so sure. Henry has been helping him today, and aren’t there times he suspects that Henry is just another name for Captain A?

“So put your author hat on now,” Hans says, “because that’s what we’re doing. We’re going to go to work.”

“Work?”

“I need to know if it’s possible.”

“If what’s possible?”

Hans opens his car door. The interior light comes on. Jerry can see tools hanging on the walls, some gardening equipment, some rope and a shovel and rolls of duct tape that are the go-to tools of Henry’s trade.

“I want you to think like an author while I pitch you this idea. Can you do that?” Hans asks.

“I can try.”

“You need to do more than try,” Hans says. “Okay?”

“Okay.”

“Good. So this is a story about a crime writer who’s in a nursing home. He has dementia. He keeps confessing to crimes he thinks he did, but he didn’t do them, he just wrote about them. There are crimes he has done—for example he shot his wife and he killed a girl just after his daughter was married, and there’s a chance he killed another girl when he was young, so he’s not an innocent person, but he doesn’t deserve to be punished for crimes he hasn’t committed. Today he wakes up in the middle of a crime scene, and he has no memory of how he got there or what he’s done.”

“Is there a point to this recap?” Jerry asks.

“The entire time he questions why he can remember some things but not others. The Alzheimer’s, of course, hides things from him. And he’s repressed painful things from his past. But he can’t remember walking into town, can’t remember these women, can’t remember any of it. He finds that he’s been drugged, and recently too. Nobody has ever figured out how he escapes from the nursing home, or how he makes his way into town.” Hans pauses and stares at him. “Come on, Jerry, keep thinking of it as a novel.”

“But it’s not a novel.”

“Get Henry to think of it. Goddamn it, Jerry, work with me here. Close your eyes and pretend you’re back in your office and you’ve got your author hat on, and you’re letting Henry do all the work. You and Henry are writing your next big seller.”