Some­thing does­n’t add up.

You keep notes. You keep lots of notes.

Your notes say you were go­ing to Apart­ment A45 at The Nile Apart­ments.

And now you’re at home, sip­ping cof­fee, eat­ing bis­cot­ti’s.

They’re great bis­cot­tis and all, but still: some­thing does­n’t add up.

There’s noth­ing in your notes about your trip. Noth­ing in your notes about hav­ing en­tered The Nile Apart­ments. Noth­ing about hav­ing spo­ken with any­one there. Noth­ing about any­thing.

And then there’s your mem­ory–or lack thereof. You can’t even re­mem­ber writ­ing the note about go­ing to The Nile, yet there it is, and it is quite cer­tainly in your hand­writ­ing.

Why were you go­ing?

You shuf­fle through your pa­pers. You knew you should have kept them bet­ter or­ga­nized.

Gen­er­ally, you re­mem­ber every­thing, but for some rea­son, right now, you re­mem­ber noth­ing.

The Nile…

There! It’s cir­cled in red–you al­ways have a bunch of red pens handy. It’s on a sheet of pa­per…

Where did you get the pa­per? Surely you have notes on that?

Per­haps these?

Went to The Li­brary. Weird man (Phoenix?) sent a bunch of bees at me. Seemed to be some sort of show. Ac­ci­den­tally burned down room. Left every­one un­con­scious.

High-tailed it out. Stopped only to pick pa­per from man’s pocket.

Ad­dressed to me. Not a good sign. Sus­pect a trap.

You look at the pa­per with the cir­cled ad­dress. It does, in­deed, have your name on it.

“Deny every­thing,” it’s ti­tled.

You can vaguely re­mem­ber the bee stings, per­haps be­cause you can still feel them now.

What hap­pened?

There’s only one clue left: a name, cir­cled on your notepad, right be­low the copied-down ad­dress: “Wat­son.”

All roads lead back to home; that name is no dif­fer­ent. Your son and his friend liked Sher­lock Holmes.

That was his nick­name for her–for his friend: Wat­son.

You won­der if it’s the same–

RING.

Your phone. You should prob­a­bly an­swer it.

Es­pe­cially since “Wat­son” is call­ing.

You an­swer.

You frown.

“What? What call?” you ask. “No, I don’t re­mem­ber; I have this big blank spot…” “I take lots notes, but ap­par­ently I for­got to write that…” “Not a strug­gle?”

This time, you write it down.

Then she starts say­ing your son was hear­ing voices be­fore it hap­pened.

Well, she says, it may not have been a voice.

She says she thinks it was just a part of him he was try­ing to deny.

You are afraid. You think you might know what it could be.

But it’s im­pos­si­ble.

It was­n’t a part of him.

It was imag­i­nary.

Trem­bling, you ask if the voice had a name.

“Mo­ri­arty.”