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questions asked.
    Instead of relief, I felt a heavy burden land on my shoulders.
    Sometimes there was just no joy in getting what you wanted.
     
    Blog entry: Throughout dinner my mind kept going round in circles. The clue I’d found wouldn’t leave me alone. Decided to leaf through the first 1,000 pages of Warren’s new manuscript – the time was lost anyway.
    Zoned out. Ended up staring off into space, contemplating a test to prove my feelings for Dr. Hargrove were real.
     
    Blog entry: No ideas on the test. Decided to clear the dinner table.
     
    Blog entry: Wondered about the experimental drugs in combination with certain foods causing dangerous side effects.
    Decided never to eat broccoli again.

10.
     
     
     
    Blog entry: Sitting in the stuffy waiting room, I wondered how I’d managed to forget to bring my laptop. It was probably because I hadn’t expected them to be open on a Saturday morning. (Although, being there, I had difficulty remembering exactly why that was). Also, it hadn’t occurred to me they’d actually have a waiting room. You never saw that in movies, which was my only reference point for these kinds of places.
    The waiting room was as sober as it was unexciting. Posters depicting crimes and their punishments donned the walls. The plastic-backed chairs were linked together to form a crooked u-shape. The room’s three other occupants sat evenly spaced out and gazed about their persons disinterestedly. None of them looked non-threatening enough to strike up a conversation with. A stack of very old, dog-eared magazines lay discarded on a side table, serving merely as a reminder of much simpler times. Not even worth a cursory glance.
    With every passing second I began to doubt my sanity a little more and I feared that if they didn’t call on me soon, I’d run off and forget all about this crazy notion.
     
    Blog entry: Small silver lining: Waiting around without distractions had allowed me to come up with a makeshift love test. A little mental experiment that would tell me more about my feelings for Dr. Hargrove.
     
    Blog note: The test goes as follows: First, I’ll imagine us spending years and years together, Dr. Hargrove and I. Every single holiday, every Christmas, every one of my days off.
    This means that each time I have sex, she’ll be there. Every time I have relationship problems, she’ll be the cause. Whenever I try to take a shortcut, she’ll throw the map at my head. And so on.
    That’ll be the warm up part of the test. If that doesn’t make me miserable, I’ll move on to the next and final stage. I’ll imagine a future in which Dr. Hargrove is the sad victim of a paralyzing accident. I’ll be obliged to take care of her wheelchair-ridden body for the ensuing 40 odd years. And, if that thought doesn’t scare me as much as the thought of never seeing her again, then it’s on. I’ll know we’re meant to be together. 
    My initial feelings don’t count, though, I might over-think things, so I’ll feel more about this later.
     
    Blog entry: The guy sitting closest to me, a biker with tattoos running down both arms, was called to the desk, where he was met by an officer. Then there were only three of us left.
    Again my insecurity tried to play tag with me; of course I wasn’t the crack detective I thought I was. Of course I had nothing new to tell these people. If they hadn’t followed up on the inconsistency in Joseph Miller’s blog already, it was because it wasn’t of importance. As soon as the officer in charge of the investigation had a few moments to spare, he’d come and tell me they received hundreds of these visits every day, hundreds of idiots playing detective and thinking they’d found a vital clue that’d turn out to be a dud. ‘The only difference between you and them,’ the detective would tell me, ‘is that you’re obviously not twelve years old anymore. Now scram!’
    Just because this was a totally new experience for me, something I’d never