I lit a cigarette and wondered why I felt the way I did, wondered if I were getting psychic, wondered whether there was anything in this presentiment business or whether my nerves were just ragged.

“The next best thing for you to do if you won’t go away,” the girl advised me when she returned with full glasses, “is to get plastered and forget everything for a few hours. I put a double slug of gin in yours. You need it.”

“It’s not me,” I said, wondering why I was saying it, but somehow enjoying it. “It’s you. Every time I mention killing, you jump on me. You’re a woman. You think if nothing’s said about it, maybe none of the God only knows how many people in town who might want to will kill you. That’s silly. Nothing we say or don’t say is going to make Whisper, for instance⁠—”

“Please, please stop! I am silly. I am afraid of the words. I’m afraid of him. I⁠—Oh, why didn’t you put him out of the way when I asked you?”

“Sorry,” I said, meaning it.