“I’m six hundred and forty-eight, John, but guess how old I look? Fifteen. I sent a message straight. Was there anything at all in those locked rooms of her aunt’s mind? Were they fully furnished and only a little dusty and cobwebby and in need of an airing, or were they stark vacancy except, perhaps, for a cockroach or so or the gnawing of a rat? What was the mental equivalent of a rat’s gnawing? The image was going astray. The effects of the heroin wore off slowly. It had been her father’s surname, and it had sounded far more innocuous and American than Iovelli. But I shall lose my wager if I stay a moment longer—so here goes.
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