Paul glanced over at the station house, where a radio crackled.

“A lock isn’t a crime.

Keep writing things down anyway.

Dates matter.”

I drove away with the notebook in my lap and the question of that amber bottle riding along beside me.

At one thirty I was standing in the wet garden behind Julian’s house with Bunny tucked under my arm.

The stuffed ears were damp from the mist.

The low bedroom window was cracked open an inch.