I stared at it, and every rational part of me that might have said Brenda, listen to yourself, your mother-in-law bakes and organizes spices, was completely drowned out by the pounding, cinematic certainty that I had stumbled onto something enormous and dark, and I made a choice, right then, that I would spend the rest of the day being deeply embarrassed about.

I let the panic win.

I understand now that the map was the most innocent object in the entire suitcase, and that if I had been able to see it clearly it would have told me the truth all by itself.

Because criminals do not draw charming hand-sketched maps of the countryside and annotate them with reminders to bring thank-you cards.

That reminder alone, remember to bring thank you card, should have stopped me in my tracks; there is no dark enterprise on earth in which the operative pauses to note that she must bring a card to thank her contact.