I ought to have reported Geraldine’s appearance to the police. Her immediate disappearance, however, put me in an awkward spot. I felt a terrible dread that she would be found dead somewhere, and when this thought insinuated itself into my mind, it arrived with the ungracious suspicion that Geraldine may have taken something from my bedroom — an object which, if found on her body, would incriminate me. Those drawings were the source of this unbidden suspicion. I got out of bed, switched on the light, and searched my room. Was there anything missing? I had few belongings. As a travelling actor, I’d shed rather than accumulated things. There were a few photographs, but they all seemed to be there, although I couldn’t be sure. It had been a while since I’d looked through them. I had one small, talismanic object from my childhood, tucked away under my socks, in a drawer. Its intrinsic value was close enough to nothing, and no one but I knew its value to me.
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