“It’s gone,” he said, and he sounded confused.

“What do you mean gone?”

He pulled his arm back out. There was nothing in his hand. “It was here, and it’s always here, but now it isn’t.” He looked rattled. “I don’t . . . I don’t know where it is,” he said. It looked like Jerry from the bedroom might be on his way back.

“Well it has to be somewhere,” she said.

“I know, goddamn it, I know!”

“Well, check again.”

He checked again and got the same result.

“Where else would you hide it?”

“Nowhere. This is the place.”

“If this is the place then it would still be there,” she said, still sounding calm. At least calmer than she felt. “When did you last see it?”

“I don’t know.”

“Why did you even have one?” she asked.

“For research. I wanted to know how it felt to fire one. I went to the range a few times.”

“Without telling me. Is there anything else you’re not telling me?”

“No.”

“Then when was the last time you used it at the range?”

“It was . . . I . . . I can’t remember.”

“When was the last time you saw it?”

“I don’t know.”

“And you’re sure that’s where you keep it?” she asked.

“Of course I’m sure.”

“So where is it, then? Where in the hell is the gun?”

And . . . scene.

Thanks, Henry, for the recap.

Needless to say, you feel ashamed for yelling at Sandra, and embarrassed because you have no idea where the gun is. It’s possible you never even bought one. Actually, you know what? There’s a character in one of the books—he bought a gun and hid it beneath a loose floorboard in his office. He was planning a murder, he was the one who wanted to know how it felt, how it sounded. Is it possible that’s what you’ve been thinking of? Yes. Absolutely. You found the loose floorboard when you moved into the house, and at the time thought it’d be a good place to hide a gun, so gave that to the character you were writing about at the time. You thought it was you, but it wasn’t—it was just one of those people living in your head!

Sandra will be relieved when you tell her. But you—you’re terrified. To have made a mistake like that . . . what does that mean for your future?

All that stuff—that was today. There’s no time now to update you on the other night when Eva came over, as it’s date night tonight and you’re heading out soon with Sandra. You’re off to dinner, then off to see a movie that one of your author buddies wrote. The blanks will be filled in soon, but basically Eva and Rick have set an earlier date for the wedding to make sure you’re able to participate.

Good news—Sandra has forgiven you for the fight and will forgive you even more when you’re at dinner and you tell her there’s no gun in the house. You and me, buddy, we have a lot to make up for after our fight with her, and a lot to make up for for the days that are coming. Also, her birthday is coming up next month—she’s going to be joining you at forty-nine. You’ll get her something special.

Good news—if you can’t remember how your books go, you can read them as if they’re new. For the first time you can read them and not know about the twist that’s coming. It would be great if you could tap the dementia patient market—they buy your books, forget they’ve read them, and buy them again.

Bad news—one of the puppet eyes glued to the journal got crushed against the wall when you threw it. It looks foggy now, like a cataract.

It’s been a couple of days since Jerry’s doctor came to see him, days which he hasn’t gone wandering, days which, as far as he’s aware, he has been mostly in control. The daffodils that were in full force in the spring gardens are now limp and wilted. Some rhododendrons are blossoming, others already so heavy with flowers they’re breaking off and landing with a thud on the lawn. Trees are budding in every direction. Jerry knows it’s that time of the year when things happen quickly, that back at his house he’d have gone from mowing the lawns once every two months during winter to once a week during summer. At the moment he’s sitting among it, sitting on a bench under a silk tree whose branches are still mostly bare, the sun touching his face. He’s reading a newspaper, on the front page of which is a woman he recognizes. The woman’s name is Laura Hunt, and Laura was murdered inside her house. The article says her body was found Monday. Today, according to the paper, is Thursday. The article says her body was found in the afternoon. He remembers hearing that on the radio, and thinking that while he was at the beach enjoying the crisp air this woman was being murdered. He realizes now that he was wrong—her body was found in the afternoon, but the article says she was killed in the morning. There is the mention of a stolen necklace, of the woman being stabbed to death, and that means something to Jerry, and he closes his eyes and tries to figure it out, and—

“Are you okay, Jerry?”

He looks up. Nurse Hamilton is standing in front of him. She has a big smile that becomes a small smile then completely disappears. She sits down and puts her hands on his arm. “Jerry?”

He shakes his head. He’s not okay. He folds the newspaper in half so he can no longer see the woman’s picture. He is starting to remember.

“I killed somebody,” he says, and there—the words are in the open for Nurse Hamilton to do with them what she shall. Call the police would be his bet. He hopes she does. In fact, they might even execute him. The death penalty was abolished over fifty years ago, but with all the violence that’s been happening in New Zealand these past few years people have been asking for its return. There was even a referendum. The public voted to bring it back. He remembers it was close, but can’t remember when that was. Last year? Two years ago? He also isn’t sure if it’s been put into effect yet, but perhaps he can be the first. If so, he doesn’t want Sandra or Eva there when they hang him. He would like Nurse Hamilton there. He can imagine her sad smile might make things feel a little less scary as the rope gets tightened.

“I know,” Nurse Hamilton says, a painful expression on her face, and he wonders how she knows, then comes to the conclusion he must have told her already. She carries on. “And I’m sorry, Jerry. I really am, but you do know it wasn’t your fault.”

“Of course it was my fault,” he says. “I chose Suzan because I had fallen in love with her. I snuck into her house and hurt her and later the police arrested the wrong man.”

Her sorrow melts away. Her concern turns to relief. He thinks maybe she didn’t like Suzan.

“It’s okay,” she says.

He shakes his head. It’s never going to be okay.

“Do you remember your name?” she asks.

“Of course I remember. It’s Henry Cutter,” he says, but that doesn’t feel quite right. Close but not close enough. Plus she called him Jerry.

“Henry is your pen name,” she says.

“Pen name?”

“Jerry Grey is your real name. You’re an author.”

He searches his memory, trying to form a connection. “I don’t think so.”

“You used to write crime novels,” she says. “Sometimes you get confused about what is real and what you made up. Do you know where you are?”

“A nursing home,” he tells her, and as he tells her he starts to look around the grounds, at the trees and flowers, and there are other people here too, people wandering around, some looking happy, some looking sad, some looking lost. He is, he remembers, and somewhat ironically too, he thinks, one of the lost. “I have dementia.”

“The dementia has an awful way of rewriting your past, Jerry. It’s making the stories from your novels feel like real life to you. Suzan doesn’t exist. She never existed.”