You weren’t going to use the pillowcase anymore. The idea of being found that way, of the photograph being leaked somehow, that in a few days it would be all over the Internet—Jerry Grey wearing a pillowcase on his head, look what a fool he has become—that was an idea you couldn’t stomach. You put the barrel of the gun into your mouth and your teeth scraped against it and you didn’t like that feeling either, so you decided to fire through the side of your head instead, and you were going to do it, then you weren’t, and then you were. It was like a switch being flicked on and off. Do it, don’t do it, do it. You thought about how some suicides fail, how the bullet changes path and rattles around the skull and makes a lot of damage but doesn’t kill. You put the gun back into your mouth.

You were looking at the Halloween photograph on your desk of Eva dressed up as a patrol officer from CHiPs when you pulled the trigger, but it was the bloody shirt, the knife, and the dead girl you were thinking about. It was always going to be about the girl.

Nothing happened.

The safety was on.

You were figuring how to turn it off when Sandra burst into the room. You dropped the gun on the desk and stood so quickly the chair rolled back, got caught in a crease in the tarpaulin, tipped over, and snagged the trash bag hanging on the wall behind it and ripped it down.

Thank God, she said, and her clothes were pasted to her body, sweat was dripping down her face and her cheeks were flushed. She was out of breath.

I just need another minute, you told her.

She marched towards you. She looked at the gun, then she took in the plastic bags and the tarpaulin and the horror of it all struck her and actually brought her to a stop. Her expression changed from one of relief to one of horror. Then she started to shake, and she made it to the couch and fell into it as much as she sat into it. She was no longer flushed. She was now ghostly pale. But she was still sweating, even more so, and panting.

I just need another minute, you said, because in that moment it felt like she was upset you hadn’t yet followed through with the plan.

She shook her head. Please, sit down with me, she said, and when you didn’t move, she held her hand out towards you. Please, Jerry.

You moved to the couch and sat, but didn’t take her hand. You had a mental connection with the gun because of what you almost went through together, and could feel it back on the desk waiting to be included in the conversation.

I had a phone call, she said. I’ve been trying to ring you. It’s why I ran back. To stop you. I’m . . . I’m so sorry I . . . I shouldn’t have left you like that to do . . . to do what you were going to do, she said, and she started to cry. You wanted to put your hand on her shoulder, wanted to tell her everything was going to be okay, but you couldn’t bring yourself to do it. Things weren’t going to be okay, and let’s not forget, Future Jerry, that by this point in the game she was already screwing the baker and the alarm guys and who knows who else. Right there in that moment when you thought that, you need to know you also thought about the gun. For a second—not even that, but just a microsecond—two things happened. The first is you saw her pinned beneath the baker as he moved inside her, he was wearing his big baker’s white hat and it was ringed with sweat, his big baker’s white ass in the air. The second thing you saw was the gun, you on one end of it, the other spitting out bullets into Sandra’s chest. Two unpleasant thoughts, not even a microsecond, but there nonetheless.

Do you remember Mae?

From one of the books?

No. A few weeks ago you wandered off and got lost and confused and you knocked on her door. It was the house you lived in for a little bit when you were younger. Mae was—

Nurse Mae, you said, and you remembered her. You couldn’t remember the trip to the house, but you could remember being there, the tea and the chatting and then Sandra coming and picking you up. It was the day you were trying to dump the can of spray-paint.

That’s her, Sandra said, and she sounded pleased you remembered. Hell, even you were pleased. You allowed yourself a moment, a fantasy really, to imagine that the worst of the Alzheimer’s was behind you. Ahead were the five stages of getting better. She called to see how you were doing.

Why?

Because you went there on Saturday night.

I . . . wait. What?

I want to see the shirt.

Why?

Because I asked.

You pried up the floorboard and showed her the shirt. She didn’t look as unhappy as you’d have thought. You balled the shirt up and put it back, and then she explained everything. You can’t remember her words exactly. If Prick had been here with his video camera it would now all be up online to refresh your memory, but you can remember the gist of it.

At around three in the morning, Mae was woken up by a knock on the door. She opened it to find you standing there, and out on the street was a taxi you had arrived in. You had no money, and like the last time you had gone to her house, you were confused. She paid the taxi driver then took you inside. She told Sandra she thought about putting you back into the taxi and telling the driver to take you where he had found you, but the problem was she couldn’t know for sure where he had found you, or even that you wouldn’t just jump out at a red light and run for the hills. You sat at her kitchen table and drank a cup of tea and when she went to call Sandra, you asked her not to. This, of course, was after she explained you didn’t live there anymore, which by then you were figuring out. Your reason for not wanting her to call Sandra was simple—and you were able to show Mae just how simple it was by showing her the video of you ruining the wedding and what was left of your life. She agreed then not to call Sandra, but insisted that she call somebody. You told her about Hans. You had your phone. You made the call, and he didn’t answer, which was no surprise since it was in the middle of the night, so you left a message.

Mae sat up with you drinking cups of tea and you made small talk. The weather. Life. Music. She said you were fading in and out of the conversation, sometimes animated, other times you’d just stare ahead as if switched off. If any of this is true, Future Jerry, and there is no reason to doubt it, then it’s one of those events that didn’t cement itself into your memory banks. You were Functioning Jerry in the off position, and even though there were some on moments, none of them stuck. Hans called around five a.m. According to Mae, you insisted on meeting him out in the street.

When Sandra told you all of this, you closed your eyes and tried to picture it, and at first there was nothing, but then that changed and you could see yourself climbing into Hans’s car, but whether it happened exactly how you saw it, or whether you could imagine it because you’ve climbed into cars thousands of times, including his, you don’t know. If it’s true, you certainly don’t remember the drive home.

You were with Mae for several hours, Sandra told you. The news says Belinda was killed around three a.m. That’s the same time you were knocking on Mae’s door. The police keep saying they want to talk to anybody who saw anything that night, and want to talk to anybody who lived on her street who was awake around that time. Three a.m., Jerry, don’t you see what that means? If you had killed her before then, Mae would have seen the blood on your shirt. I asked her what you were wearing, and she said the same clothes from the wedding, from the online video. Then Hans picked you up.

You’ve spoken to Hans? you asked.