Nobody has ever accused me of anything I had not already gone through line by line with a ruler.

And there is one more, which I did not expect and which happens about three times a year now.

Somebody finds out, and they go quiet, and then a day or two later they come and find me somewhere private and tell me about somebody in their own life who died without anybody.

A brother.

A tenant.

In one case a man who had lived in the flat below for eleven years.

Three times a year, for three years, in an accounting firm on South Sixth Street.