217 Babel Street | Apartment 7
The murderer was probably a fellow archaeologist. Archaeologists had serious knives, she knew. They needed machetes to clear paths in forests and that sort of thing. The crown in the thicket. Yes. But was that too obvious for S. J. Simmonds? Margaret rolled over and listened as the front door opened and closed. The kitchen light came on and lit the crack under the door. No, it was more likely that the murderer was not an archaeologist at all but someone who knew where the machete would be. Or was that even more obvious? Clever S.J. was trying to catch her out again.
Harry came in and she watched his silhouette undress down to its shorts. She could tell he was sad.
"Harry?"
"I thought you were asleep." He climbed in beside her.
"I can't."
"How are you feeling?"
"Very awake."
"Can I get you anything?"
"No, no." She touched his arm. Her own were papery now. Her body was as flat as an empty envelope but Harry's was full and warm. She stroked the hair at the nape of his neck. "Harry -"
"Mm?"
"Did work go badly?"
"No, it was fine. But I want to sleep now."
Then he was unhappy because of her, because she'd snapped at him. She wished she hadn't. Now that she'd complained she could hardly ask him to go back and finish the story. Yet she had to know what happened. Each solution she thought of seemed right for a moment and then wrong.