Something doesn’t add up.
You keep notes. You keep lots of notes.
Your notes say you were going to Apartment A45 at The Nile Apartments.
And now you’re at home, sipping coffee, eating biscotti’s.
They’re great biscottis and all, but still: something doesn’t add up.
There’s nothing in your notes about your trip. Nothing in your notes about having entered The Nile Apartments. Nothing about having spoken with anyone there. Nothing about anything.
And then there’s your memory – or lack thereof. You can’t even remember writing the note about going to The Nile, yet there it is, and it is quite certainly in your handwriting.
Why were you going?
You shuffle through your papers. You knew you should have kept them better organized.
Generally, you remember everything, but for some reason, right now, you remember nothing.
There! It’s circled in red – you always have a bunch of red pens handy. It’s on a sheet of paper…
Where did you get the paper? Surely you have notes on that?
Went to The Library. Weird man (Phoenix?) sent a bunch of bees at me. Seemed to be some sort of show. Accidentally burned down room. Left everyone unconscious.
High-tailed it out. Stopped only to pick paper from man’s pocket.
Addressed to me. Not a good sign. Suspect a trap.
You look at the paper with the circled address. It does, indeed, have your name on it.
“Deny everything,” it’s titled.
You can vaguely remember the bee stings, perhaps because you can still feel them now.
There’s only one clue left: a name, circled on your notepad, right below the copied-down address: “Watson.”
All roads lead back to home; that name is no different. Your son and his friend liked Sherlock Holmes.
That was his nickname for her – for his friend: Watson.
You wonder if it’s the same–
Your phone. You should probably answer it.
Especially since “Watson” is calling.
“What? What call?” you ask. “No, I don’t remember; I have this big blank spot…” “I take lots notes, but apparently I forgot to write that…” “Not a struggle?”
This time, you write it down.
Then she starts saying your son was hearing voices before it happened.
Well, she says, it may not have been a voice.
She says she thinks it was just a part of him he was trying to deny.
You are afraid. You think you might know what it could be.
But it’s impossible.
It wasn’t a part of him.
It was imaginary.
Trembling, you ask if the voice had a name.