Death Before Facebook

misfits. But I can’t figure out who
he
was.”
    “He was probably an egg that couldn’t hatch until he got that memory dealt with. A perennial four-year-old terrified of the world because of what it did to his daddy.”
    “You think he could have seen something?”
    “Oh, sure. That’s how memories start to come back—a little at a time. That’s what he said, isn’t it?”
    “It’s what he posted.”
    “He was so isolated he didn’t even talk; he just posted.”
    “We don’t really know that. He might have talked to Layne and Lenore—maybe other people.”
    “So if he remembered a face, he might have told someone.”
    “Well, he did have vocal cords.”
    “Oh, stop. A lot of men have hearts but they act heartless, now don’t they?”
    “You’d be the expert on that. Of course he could have told someone—he could even have tried to blackmail the killer.”
    “Somehow I doubt it, given the guy you’ve described. I wonder if he kept a journal.”
    “What?” Skip’s ears pricked up.
    “That’s a common technique for people who’re trying to bring something into consciousness. Especially if they’re dreaming—and the first thing he posted was a dream.”
    “Hold it—about this journal idea. I didn’t know about it. Does the average person do that?”
    “Sure, if they’ve ever been in therapy. But I think a lot of people just
do
it—it helps them organize their thoughts. Someone from the TOWN might have suggested it.”
    “Could be. They’re helpful to a fault. But I didn’t see any mention of it in his topic.”
    “How about E-mail?”
    “I’m not sure yet; the sysop’s not being all that helpful. You know what a sysop is?”
    “Sure.”
    “Come to think of it, he had some books on self-hypnosis.”
    “He did? Now that’s interesting. Maybe he was trying to get at it that way.”
    “The thing is, if there was a journal…”
    “What?”
    “Well, it’s as likely to be on the computer—maybe even in his personal TOWN file—as written down in a book. You’ve got your work cut out for you.” Cindy Lou started to collect her belongings.
    “Let me know if you want me to introduce you to a nice man.” Where Skip would find one she had no idea, but that was no problem—this was part of their standard good-bye.
    Cindy Lou wrinkled her nose. “Hate ’em.” This was the rest of it. “By the way, how’s your man?”
    “Okay, I guess. He sounds a little funny, though.”
    “Sounds funny how?”
    “I don’t know. He made a remark I didn’t get.”
    “Miss Sensitive. You need to get out more, you know that?”
    “Speaking as a shrink?”
    “Speaking as a friend—especially a friend who wants to go see the Boucree Brothers. You up for that?”
    “When?”
    “They’re playing Thursday at The Blue Guitar.”
    “I don’t think… I mean, this case…”
    “It’s a date.”
    Skip thought about it. “Boucrees or bust.”
    It was true she almost never went out anymore. The way she got involved in cases, she just didn’t think of it—and now that Sheila and Kenny were there, it seemed more fun to stay home.
    But they’re not my family
.
    She told herself that often, felt she had to, to avoid disappointment, keep her perspective.
    She decided to drop in on Honey Diefenthal, former wife of Pearce Randolph, aka Bigeasy, instead of calling her. Honey lived nearby, in a wonderful restored camelback, which had been painted a delicate peach.
    I like her already
, Skip thought.
    Honey—clearly just back from lunch—wore black wool crepe slacks and a pink starched shirt, elegant but informal, the kind of outfit you didn’t have to put any thought into, and you still looked great.
    If you were Honey Diefenthal.
    She was petite, a quality about which Skip had a deep ambivalence. In some ways her size made her feel powerful—in others, simply awkward, like an ostrich among canaries.
    Honey was not only petite, but as blond as her name implied, as peaches and cream, as capital-S Southern. She wore her hair in something resembling a crew cut, which could have looked butch but instead looked delicate and caplike. Skip envied the confidence it took to pull it off.
    She identified herself.
    “Oh, yes. Pearce said you’d probably get in touch.”
    “Pearce? But we don’t even know each other.” Skip felt the flash of annoyance she’d come to associate with the TOWN and its denizens.
    “Well, he knows you. He said to give you some tea and crumpets. Won’t you come