They close the door behind them and pause and listen, Jerry’s heart louder now, his breathing heavy. There is no beeping keypad. No alarm. His hands are sweating. He left the key in the lock, otherwise right now it’d most likely be sliding from his fingers onto the floor. In his mind he can see Eva upstairs in her bedroom doing her homework, or talking on the phone to one of her school friends. Sandra is in the lounge reading a book, or working on her next court case. Jerry can see himself behind the desk of his office, plugging away at the word count. He tries to draw in a deep breath, but it catches in his throat, and then it’s like swallowing a golf ball. Hans puts a hand on his shoulder and he almost jumps.

“Calm down, Jerry,” he says, keeping his voice low. “The sooner we get the diary, the sooner we can get out of here.”

“It’s a journal,” Jerry whispers back. His eyes have adjusted somewhat to the dark. “Step where I step,” he says, and then he starts to walk.

Hans steps where Jerry steps. The furniture makes black holes in the living room. When they reach the hall, he remembers the boards around the door can complain sometimes, so he makes a big show of stepping over them, then a big show of walking down the side of the hallway and not the middle, and the door to the office—his office—is open. They get inside and they close the door, shutting them off from the outside world, Jerry more relieved than ever to have had the room soundproofed.

“Well? Do you think there’s anybody home?” Jerry asks.

“I don’t know. I don’t think so. Let’s just get this done,” Hans says, and he takes his cell phone out and uses the light to look around the room. For a few moments the office is Jerry’s again. His desk, his couch, his bookcase, his framed King Kong Escapes poster on the wall. Then he sees all the subtle differences. The books are different. The computer is different. Different knickknacks on the bookcase mixed in with some of his own, different stationary on the desk, a different monitor, the belongings of a different man, belonging to a different life. He wonders why the police didn’t tear up the floors and pull the walls down in search of evidence. But perhaps they thought the case looked pretty clear cut.

He makes his way past the desk and to the cupboard in the corner of the room. He opens it. Inside are boxes that, if Gary is anything like him, will be full of receipts and bank statements and all the other joys of being taxed in multiple countries that people don’t think about when it comes to being a writer. There’s a set of small plastic drawers full of stationary, a set of headphones hanging from a hook in the wall, a pile of magazines, some reams of paper. He starts dragging everything out, hoping he’s going to find the hidden space, hoping it’s not just something from one of his books, like that time, he suddenly remembers, when he went and bought cigarettes. His heart rate is heading back from extremely elevated into the more comfortable zone of very elevated. It only takes a second for muscle memory to kick in—once the cupboard is empty he lowers his hand and presses his finger into the corner. Out pops the opposite corner. He pulls the board away and hands it to Hans, and then . . .

And then he does nothing. He stares at the cavity, suddenly too frightened as to what may be in there. Or what may not.

You have to look, Henry says. Looking back is the only way to be able to move forward. You didn’t come all this way not to.

He looks.

The first thing he sees is a bottle of gin. He gets it out. It’s half-empty. He unscrews the lid and breaths in the aroma, the smell a brief visit to his old life.

“There’s time for that later,” Hans says, taking the bottle off him and putting it on the desk.

Jerry reaches back into the hole and the second thing he pulls out is the gun. He holds it loosely from the base of the handle, the way someone would handle it if they were surrendering to an Armed Offenders Unit. It’s a revolver. For a moment he can remember sitting on the floor next to Sandra. He’s spinning the chamber of the gun like they do when playing Russian roulette. He flicks the latch with his thumb and the cylinder opens out to the left. Each of the holes are full, but one of the bullets is only a casing, the contents of that casing having ended up inside his wife. Hans reaches over his shoulder and takes the gun off him.

Don’t trust Hans.

Probably worried Jerry is going to turn it on himself.

“Keep looking,” Hans says.

He keeps looking. This time his fingers close on the journal. He looks at the cover, at the smiley face Eva drew, the eyes glued to the cover, one of them foggy, one of them clear. Dad’s coolest ideas is written neatly above the face, The Captain Goes Burning on the spine. He opens the cover, and there are his words, words from another life filling the pages.

“It’s really here,” he says.

“Let me take a look,” Hans says, and reaches back over.

But Jerry doesn’t hand it over. Instead he clutches it to his chest. When he looks back at Hans he sees his friend looking annoyed, and for a moment, the briefest of moments, there is something in Hans’s face, something that reminds Jerry that Hans always seemed to know the dark side even better than his darkest characters. Then Hans smiles. Jerry realizes he’s being silly, and that everything is okay.

“Please, Jerry,” Hans says. “I think it’s better if I look. You’re too close to it. Too emotional. I can give you the truth in a nicer way.”

Jerry decides that Hans is right, that he won’t try to twist the journal into the best possible nonguilty narrative the way Jerry would. Hans carries the journal over to the couch and sits down, the phone going with him, not leaving a lot of light for Jerry. Jerry reaches back into the cavity and finds the flash drives. Then his hand touches something long and cold, and he adjusts his grip and puts his fingers around it. It’s a knife, no doubt the one used to kill the florist. An image flashes through his mind, of Sandra picking up his jacket and finding the blade in the pocket. It begs the question—if there is going to be a tactile link to a memory, why one that pales in significance to him being a murderer? Why does picking up the knife remind him of Sandra finding it, when picking up the gun reminds him of nothing?

There’s a reason why you’ve always conveniently forgotten those things.

Eric was drugging him to cover up the murders he committed. But what about Suzan with a z, Sandra, and the florist? The doctors would say he’s been repressing the horrible things he’s done, but is that really what’s going on here?

No. There’s more going on here, Henry says. Keep looking. You’ve found your journal, but mine is still in there.

Was Henry keeping a journal too?

He puts the knife on the edge of the desk and goes back to the hole. He closes his hand around some loose pages.

The missing pages from his journal.

You always thought Sandra was stealing them, Henry says.

But it wasn’t Sandra, it was his alter ego, the man who makes bad things happen.

That’s what they pay me for.

He sits in the office chair. He turns on the desk lamp, not caring if anybody sees the light from outside, and Hans doesn’t seem to care either because he doesn’t say anything. He seems too engrossed with the Madness Journal.

Jerry begins to read.

It may be his handwriting, but they are definitely not his words.

They are the words of Henry Cutter.

DAY THIRTY-EIGHT

It’s day thirty-eight and you feel great. You taught Mrs. Busybody across the road a lesson today, Future Henry. She wandered over here in her pastel-colored outfit recently to tell you how you were ruining the whole neighborhood, and no doubt she’ll wander her way back within the next few hours to come and see you again after what you’ve done. The way I see it, you were presented with two options. Option one was to tidy up your garden and make her happy, to mow the lawns and pull the weeds and conform like everybody else on the street. Or there was option two. Which is what you went with. Option two was to go over to her house and make her garden look worse than yours. It’s funny how she got under your skin so much, but she did, and not only have you helped her with her own garden, but you’ve put her into book number thirteen. You wanted to give her a real Hansel and Gretel vibe, make her the crazy old witch that tries turning children into casseroles, but since you don’t write fairy tales you’ve given her a cameo instead as the local cat lady who chews her fingernails down to the nub as she stares out her kitchen window watching life pass her by before being raped by a clown. Cameos are things you give people who upset you. Somebody ducked into the parking space you were waiting for? Fuck you—you’re dead on page twenty-six. Somebody give you a bad review? Fuck you—you’re the local pedophile on page ten. Doctor Badstory told you you have dementia? Fuck you.