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strange state of mind when he wrote it.”
    â€œMust have.”
    â€œWhat about you? When you read it?”
    Scott did not answer, but he could not hide his own confusion over what he was feeling, seeing, remembering.
    â€œMust be strange for you,” she said softly. “Must make you quite emotional.”
    â€œYes, quite.”
    â€œWell, let’s forget about it for now, go and—”
    â€œWhat was wrong when you got out of the car?”
    Helen sat up straight on the settee, staring up at Scott where he stood before her.
    â€œYou looked worried about something. Nervous.”
    â€œYou were watching me?”
    He nodded.
    â€œThat explains it. Felt like I was being watched. And I was.” Helen stood and went out to the kitchen, leaving Scott trying to figure out whether that explained anything at all.
    Against all odds, Scott enjoyed their meal. They spent time in the kitchen chopping peppers, spring onions, and mushrooms, stir-frying chicken and sweet and sour sauce, boiling rice, and stirring everything into a tasty dish that went well with a glass of red wine. The kitchen filled with steam and the smells of cooking, and as they sat at the table to eat Scott noticed that the steam had condensed on the window, and the view out into the garden was now hidden. He was glad.
    The wine settled his nerves and dulled his heightened senses. The food tasted good. He and his wife succeeded in not chatting about the letter all throughthe meal, and even though Scott felt it folded into his back pocket, he did not dwell on the broken drawer.
In denial,
he thought once. But it seemed to be working, so he went with the flow.
    It had turned six o’clock by the time they finished. Helen ran hot water into the sink while Scott cleared the work surfaces, and within ten minutes they had tidied the kitchen and retired to the living room. They sat close together on the settee, Scott’s hand on Helen’s thigh, Helen leaning against his arm. Their wine-glasses were replenished, and Scott felt a comfortable buzz. It was still early, but he looked forward to an evening of wine, a DVD, and perhaps lovemaking later. It was at times like this that he appreciated the simple goodness in life.
    â€œOne phrase in that letter . . .” Helen began.
    â€œHmm?” Scott was annoyed that she’d brought it up again, but at the same time he knew that it was inevitable. She had come home early because of the way he had sounded on the phone, and he’d sounded scared because he’d spooked himself. One last trick from Papa, perhaps. It had been intended for him almost three decades ago, but even after all these years Papa could fool him.
    â€œWhere he talks about the Chord of Souls. And surrounds that name with those symbols.”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œWhat was that?”
    The new memory from that afternoon floated back to him, where Papa mentioned the song from the Chord of Souls . . . and then that weird, almostanimallike series of sounds he had made. “I’m not sure.”
    Helen shifted, moving away slightly so that she could turn to look at him. “Really?”
    Scott nodded. Shrugged. “Well . . . I think it was a book. But I don’t know which one.”
    â€œWhy do you think it was a book?”
    â€œSomething Papa said to me once.”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œI can’t remember!” he snapped, immediately regretting it. “Sorry. Just . . . something about something he’d found out in the desert. It was just a story.”
    â€œYou’re sure?”
    â€œYes. No. Everything with Papa was strange.”
    Helen was silent for a while, sipping her wine and staring at the blank TV screen. Scott could see them both reflected in there. When he was a kid he’d believed that his reflection was another person.
    â€œHe talks about it in the letter as though it’s still around,” she said.
    Scott nodded. But he thought,
Is that what