He said when I called that he could hear the tension in my voice, and although it was a long drive for him, he agreed at once to go to the house. He came to my room at Dansville Memorial Hospital early on my fourth evening there. He was dressed in jeans, a white, long-sleeved shirt, a denim jacket, and he looked scruffy and tired. He shook my hand, backed away a few steps, said I looked awful, which I conceded, and then he added, "I couldn't find her, Jack. Maybe she's left you or something." I shook my head. "No, Will, she's finished doing that kind of thing . . ." He cut in, "Your house is a mess." "It was vandalized." "You told me. I cleaned some of it up for you." "Thanks." "I fed your cat, too. She was awfully hungry, Jack. I thought you had two cats." "We did. One ran off." "Then I went looking for Erika. I hear you were with some other woman when the accident happened." I sighed. "I was with a friend who happens to be a woman." "Not that it matters," he said. "I mean, Erika's missing, and that's what matters, isn't it?" I started to answer.
