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—I mean, I knew he was sick. But. But I'm glad he left the note anyway. So I know for sure why he did it. Sort of.

She dropped the almond back in the bowl, picked out another.

—You think anyone would lie about that? I mean, no one would lie on their suicide note, would they?

I replaced the lamp I'd taken from the desk, minus the silk shade that had been sprayed, and looked over at her.

—You want to be a little more enigmatic with your questions? Seriously, if you try a little harder I might get curious or something.

She studied the almond between her fingers, rotating it.

—No. I don't mean anything. He was sick. He was going to die. Soon. Painfully. I know why he did it. I just never read a suicide note before. It made me wonder. I guess. But no. It all makes sense.

I adjusted the silver pen-and-pencil set on the desk and lined it up with the antique in-and-out box and an absurdly detailed model of a freight vessel, its deck stacked with tiny cargo containers, Chinese characters on their sides.

She tossed the almond in her mouth and chewed.

—Makes sense as only a person making their head explode can make sense, I mean.

I walked to the section of bookcase that was in line with the open bathroom door.

—He had some nice books.

She watched me.

—Yeah. He loved his books. Well, he loved having a den with lots of books on the walls anyway. He never actually read them. He loved how they looked, but if it wasn't business-related or on the topic of fishing, Dad didn't have time to read much.

She dropped her voice an octave.

—Too much to do, sweetheart. Why bother reading about some made-up life when you can live it yourself?

She brushed curly dark hair from her forehead, bit her lip.

—Is that bad, that it kind of makes sense to me? What he did? Should I be worried?

I misted the spines of the books and watched white speckles appear over dozens of them.

—Fuck do I know. I just work here.

—Right, I forgot, you're the retard who doesn't know how to say the right thing.

She picked up another almond, moved it toward her mouth, stopped.

—Should I be eating these things?

I looked at the bowl of nuts, well out of line with the bathroom door.

—Um. Truth?

—No, lie to me, that would make me feel so much better.

I wiped my cheek on my shoulder.

—I doubt they could get hit with anything over there.

She started to put the nut in her mouth.

I turned back to the bookcase.

—But then again, this is my second day on the job and I'm the same lame fucker who made fun of how your dad wasted himself. So you might not want to listen to someone so clearly retarded.

She dropped the nut back in the bowl.

—Yeah, you got a point.

She got off the chair and walked over to me and looked at the books.

I misted them again and she reached out and touched the tip of her finger to a white spot that had appeared on a photograph on one of the shelves: a sunburned man with a thick moustache, large arms and shoulders, standing on a dock next to a striped marlin, well over 200 pounds, hanging from a tackle rig.

—Damnit. Goddamn it.

—What the fuck are you doing?

I helped Po Sin muscle the bagged and gutted mattress down the hall to the front door.

—Working.

He stopped, pausing in front of the door that led into the den, watching the girl as she took several books down from the shelves and boxed them.

—Looks to me like she's working.

He looked at me again, shook his head, and backed toward the front door and out into the sun.

We leaned the mattress against the van and I pointed back at the house.

—She wanted to go through them herself. She said she didn't want to keep the fabric-covered ones because she could see some of the marks.

Po Sin rested his ass in the open back door of the van and it dropped on its shocks.

—Fuck that. I mean, what are you doing talking with her?

I raised my hands over my head.

—You said talk to her!

—I said apologize, I didn't say engage in a damn tête-à-tête with her.

—She wanted to talk, man. What am I supposed to say? Oh, miss, so sorry, my boss is a total prick and will freak out