Chapter 11: The Last Pages

Griffin answered the door in a bedsheet.

He had looked for his jeans, and then the knocking came again, so he took the sheet.

The inspector stood in the hall with her clipboard and her navy coat.

She looked at him from the top of his hair to the hem of the sheet.

"Good morning," she said. "I'll need to see the bed."

Imogen stood behind him in a robe, with her hair down and one hairpin still stuck in it.

"Of course," she said, in her boardroom voice. "Please come in."

The inspector walked to the bed and stopped.

The sheets were twisted into a rope. One pillow hung off the mattress, and another was on the lamp.

She took a pen from her pocket, bent over the mess, and began to count under her breath.

"Eleven," she said. "Twelve. Seventeen."

"Is that good?" Griffin asked.

"Dozens," she said, and wrote it down.

Imogen did not look at him.

Her ears were pink.

The inspector checked the closet and found his hoodies hanging among her suits.

She checked the bathroom and found two toothbrushes in one cup, leaning together.

She checked the nightstand and picked up the dented red mug.

"This is filthy," she said.

"It's his," said Imogen.

"It's next to your pencil."

"They're friends."

The inspector put it back precisely where it had been, and gave Imogen a long look.

"Mrs. Oakes. I've done two hundred of these. Most couples sleep in different beds and say they don't."

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