But first, you and I must come to an agreement. You see, Mr. Malone, right now there's nothing more I can do to help you." We sat in the quiet of her office. I didn't know why, but I felt that I had to tell her all that had happened at my house. And it wasn't easy. Once I started telling the story, I had to stop and catch my breath before I could continue. After I finished, she was quiet for a few moments. I had seen her smile before, but this was a new kind of smile. It wasn't her usual kindly, understanding smile, but a knowing, proud smile. I felt humiliated, as if I had let her down. And maybe I had, though I didn't know how. I just knew that she had given me some special thing, some vital clue, some essential thing. And I had failed her. When I finished, she looked at me. "You have been a friend to my family. But you made a mistake," she said, and now her voice was completely devoid of kindness. "And don't worry, I can't tell anybody anything about this." "What do you mean?" "It doesn't have anything to do with you. My husband has been talking to me. He's been giving me the wrong kind of signals. I know why," she said, as if this was a lesson that she had learned in her psychology classes, "and it's going to make me an outcast in this town. But after this, I won't have anything more to do with him. I know it, and it's time for me to stop being so stupid." I looked at her for a long time. At first I was full of anger, but then it changed into a more general fear and sadness. "Okay, here's the way we're going to handle it. You'll come to my house for dinner tonight. I want to show it to you. And then I'll explain what happened. If you agree to go along with my husband, if you think you can help, you can go back to that place and start teaching. I think we can help each other." We left the office. I realized how late it was and hurried down the hall to the bus. That night I couldn't sleep in class. My mind wandered and I had to talk to Mrs. Mendoza. I had to find out if the invitation to her house was as simple as she seemed to be saying, or was it part of some kind of plan to humiliate me? I wondered about Mrs. Mendoza's power to make other people do what she wanted them to do, about her control. But I decided that it was none of my business and that I couldn't find out anyway. What I could find out, but couldn't ask, was how Mrs. Mendoza would get rid of someone. Her face had been a mask of understanding, almost of encouragement, but it could just as easily have been a mask that she was wearing to hide how much she would enjoy it. Who is Mrs. Mendoza? I wondered. Is she an old friend of my mother's? What did they talk about in all those long years that I was a child and didn't have the sense to listen? What did she tell my mother about me that I didn't understand at the time? I didn't see how she would be able to make me do what she wanted me to do. My hands were tied and, besides, I felt somehow that there was still time to do something about it. But later, when I was back in my hotel room, I knew that whatever happened to me was inevitable. This was why my mother had to leave, why my father had to have everything taken away, why people had to die. It was all because of stupid actions. Mrs. Mendoza and her husband, Mr. Kessler, they were the reason. And as I lay in bed at night, trying to fall asleep, I would tell myself that I had no more power in this situation than Mrs. Mendoza. Mrs. Mendoza's house was like a greenhouse. During the winter in Boston, she always had the blinds drawn so that not much sunlight would enter. Inside, the white-painted wicker furniture sat stiffly beneath the thick white netting, like an alien life form that had been captured and was ready to leave at the slightest signal. The furniture had been designed for a formal sitting room, like in the movie theater. But she was a big woman and the furniture had made it uncomfortable for her to sit, so she always had it pushed together in a clump. I wondered about the women in the town that she would invite over to her house and whether they would be as shy and awkward as I was. I wondered about the people Mrs. Mendoza would invite over to her house, because when I first walked into her house that night, I didn't see a single person I had ever met. She had three or four other couples, but that was all. "Let me introduce you," Mrs. Mendoza said as she poked the fire with a match. The room smelled of lilacs. "This is my friend, Mr. Martin," she said, "and Mrs. Mackey, and my husband, Mr. Kessler." I had a feeling that they all knew who I was. When I came into the room, the man was smiling at me. "Let me introduce you, too," Mrs. Mendoza said. "This is the writer, Mr. Malone. He's living in our house for the time being." She smiled and nodded, and I wondered if I would be the only person in the room who didn't know exactly what she meant by "living in the house." "You're going to have to forgive me," Mrs. Mendoza said to Mr. Kessler and Mrs. Mackey. "I can't get the right kind of people. Mr. Martin, I don't know anything about him except that he works at the library. He's from Boston, I think." Mrs. Mackey, a short, heavyset woman, looked me up and down and smiled at me. "Are you writing a story about the town?" I wasn't used to being referred to as a writer, and I was too shy to say anything in response, but after a moment, I nodded, and Mrs. Mackey looked relieved. "I knew it," she said. "I knew it." The people at the table were all silent for a moment, as if they were waiting for me to say something. But since I didn't know what they wanted me to say, I just looked down at the table and smiled. "Do you like it here in this town?" Mrs. Mackey asked me. "I like it," I said. "I was wondering," Mrs. Mackey continued, "if you could tell us something about what things are like out there. I don't mean to be nosy, but Mr. Kessler wanted to know if you saw any real celebrities up there. Mr. Kessler likes to collect celebrities." I smiled and looked at Mrs. Mendoza. She was staring at Mrs. Mackey, and I knew that she wasn't happy about what she was hearing. But she didn't say anything. I looked down at the table. There was a heavy silence. "I saw somebody famous in town the other day," Mrs. Mackey continued, when no one said anything. "I didn't see who it was, but I saw him. He was driving a fancy car, a big, black one." "That must have been Robert Pattinson," Mr. Kessler said. I smiled, but I couldn't think of anything to say. When Mrs. Mendoza looked at me again, I nodded, and that seemed to be enough. Mr. Kessler began talking to me about the town. "What do you think about the situation in that house? We all know that there's someone in there. He's been locked up there for the last two months." "It's a shame. I think," I said, and then began to wonder how much Mr. Kessler knew about the situation in the house, but before I could ask, Mrs. Mendoza interrupted him. "We're getting a little off the subject," she said, turning toward Mr. Kessler. "I want to thank everyone for helping me out with my husband. And I want you all to know that I've been able to learn a lot about my husband from the way the three of you have been talking. If we can find out who he is, we can all take care of him and save his life. That's all that anyone can ask for." Mr. Kessler looked down at his hands. "I think we've all been on the verge of making decisions like that," Mrs. Mackey said. Mr. Kessler and Mr. Martin continued to look down at their hands and didn't say anything. "I'll tell you something that might help," Mrs. Mackey said. "You have to understand, though, that this is a dangerous story, and there are some things I can't tell you. I can't talk about how we found this out, and I'm sure that Mr. Martin would like to know why Mrs. M