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Page 73
way to refute it. His, they could pick at.
Flora Saint Quentin had built a world in which he was the hunter and she was his prey; he was the passionate lover and she was the object of his desire.
Harry studied the phone for a moment, then walked slowly back into the kitchen. He headed straight for the counter next to the sink and picked up the heavy glass jar. He didn't know why, but there was something compelling about it. Then he noticed it. Where there had once been only one something in the jar, there were now two. He set the jar down and stared at it.

It was close to midnight when Harry Driver, confused and weary, trudged up to his second floor bedroom. The rain had continued its torrential assault on the old house throughout the long evening. Now it seemed as though the old house was more drafty and decidedly more empty than he could ever recall. In his bedroom, he began to systematically replay the bizarre events of the last 30 hours of his life. A series of events had propelled him straight into the middle of a jumbled nightmare. Anticipating conclusions that Dawkins would reach, he had destroyed Flora's letters and burned the little brown spiral notebook. And he had resigned himself to a second and this time more thorough search of the

 
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