'I know what you did last night.'
I had to reread the curious message several times before I finally understood its meaning.
What I had 'done' yesterday....
So... It wasn't a dream after all? Had I really run over someone?
But had what happened after that really happened too? Or was I hallucinating?
No. I felt deep inside that I hadn't imagined it.
I hadn't imagined this woman, who even in death, was still talking as if she were in a tea room, discussing the week's gossip.
What I had felt was real. Too real, in fact, to be just a dream.
So, if there was a chance that I could meet this person again, so much the better. Because if there wasn't, and I had really killed someone that night, then a potential witness was blackmailing me. And in that case, I would rather go straight to jail. It was less tiring than trying to understand day after day the behavior of the human beings around me.
"Did you receive good news?" Osagawa Sensei, who had returned with two envelopes under his arm, said.
I quickly put my phone away in my jacket's pocket, and stared at the man who had just barged into his own living room.
"What makes you say that?" I asked with a look as inexpressive as ever.
Mr. Osagawa sat down opposite me, on the other side of the coffee table, in a chair identical to the one I was sitting in.
"You looked happy," he said simply.
Me? Happy?
No way.
And obviously I must have thought that so hard it must have shown on my face, because Mr. Osagawa quickly added with a smile:
"You probably didn't realize it yourself."
No. I had never felt anything before last night. And I hadn't felt anything since.
So to say I was happy was really taking it too far. I wasn't 'happy'.
I had in mind what a 'happy' person showed as external signs: a big smile, squinted eyes, slightly arched eyebrows...
And I was absolutely sure that I had not used that particular expression.
It was a really stupid observation on his part.
"You seem to be having trouble dealing with your emotions, don't you?" The detective novel writer deduced quite correctly.
He was a little too perceptive for my taste. Was that why he was able to write novels that were loved by so many people?
Personally, I didn't like it. I didn't like it at all. It seemed to bother me. But not to the point of making it known verbally.
I was about to leave his slightly too personal question unanswered, when he added:
"I, too, had a lot of trouble with my emotions at one point...."
Did I hear him right?
I wasn't sure if he was talking about a similar issue to mine. But I could always ask.
"You talk about it like it's behind you..." I said with my sullen gaze directed at him.
That was indeed the impression it gave. And that made me curious.
He handed me the two A4 envelopes to take in hand, and answered my barely concealed question:
"You have to find something that interests you enough to take your mind off the problem at hand. At least, that's how I solved mine. Everyone has their own method, after all."
Something... I'm interested in enough?
That's ridiculous.
But...
Perhaps it was a lead to be explored?
After all, it seemed less ridiculous than a head completely detached from its body trying to intimidate you. Without succeeding, moreover.
"But finding something you're passionate about, or that keeps your mind busy, is a good start I guess. Don't you think so?" He said with a smile.
This time, his smile seemed genuine. No pretense.
It was really strange, how this man had been smiling falsely all along, only to smile for real, once it was about a subject closely related to him.
Then I heard the sound of a pan - or some kind of metal object - falling to the ground with a clatter. This surprised Mr. Osagawa a little. He frowned slightly, but quickly smiled again, as if to show that he was embarrassed by the inconvenience.
"Don't mind that. The cat must have tried to steal my food again," he said while tilting his head slightly to the side. "No matter how many times I put a lid on, it still manages to reach for it."
Again, it was a fake smile. As if he wasn't really sorry for the noise his pet had just made. This made me focus on the two envelopes he had handed me.
Both envelopes were quite thick, and a bump in one of them made me guess that the author had also enclosed a flash drive, in addition to the original manuscripts I was holding. It was rather thoughtful of him, although I didn't expect someone who stayed in the analogue to provide me with something so technologically advanced.
Mr. Osagawa brought a cup of coffee to his lips, beginning to drink the black as hell liquid that I would never venture to taste.
That's when my phone chose to vibrate again. A short and unique vibration, once again.
I took it out of my pocket, and saw that it was already more than ten in the morning. Then, I opened the new message I received, which was again from the same unknown number.
'If you don't want me to call the police on you, go to this address.'
A simple, short sentence, accompanied by an image. A screenshot of a map, with a particular location highlighted.
I wasn't sure if it was an order, an advice, or maybe just blackmail. But the tone seemed to be compelling me to go there.
Putting the phone back in my pocket, I stood up, and while bowing slightly to greet the author facing me, I said:
"I thank you for your time, Osagawa Sensei, but I must leave now if I don't want to be late."
Mr. Osagawa was a little surprised to see me leave so quickly, but if he was disappointed that I didn't touch the cup of coffee he had served me, he didn't show it.
He walked me to the large double doors to the front yard of his house, and watched me walk to my vehicle.
Once I started my car, I took one last look at the entrance of the house. Osagawa Sensei was still looking in my direction. Maybe he was waiting for me to leave, so he could finally go inside.
Not paying any more attention to him, I started to type on the touch screen of my car computer. And after a few seconds, the address I had entered appeared, with the corresponding route and travel time.
I had plenty of time to make a detour before heading back to Tokyo, right?
With that thought, I turned my little car around on the asphalt road, finally seeing in the rearview mirror that the mystery writer had disappeared from the entrance of his house.
Maybe he didn't like strangers?
I couldn't blame him for that.
Everyone around my person was a complete stranger to me, even after knowing them for several years. And I was on my way to meet a new one.
Clutching the steering wheel in my hands, I drove in the opposite direction along the road I had taken a few hours earlier.
The contrast between the clear, sunny weather and the storm from the night before was striking. It was as if I had been in two different places. Yet I recognized the same buildings, the same intersections, and the same signs.
It was only a few miles later that I finally strayed from my route, taking a small road off to my left, twisting and turning between tall pines. Then, as the road became more and more damaged and my car getting muddy with each puddle I drove in, I found myself in front of a large and seemingly very old house.
Several vehicles were parked in front of it, and if I hadn't seen the big wooden sign above the door, I would surely not have suspected for a second that an inn was so close to my destination.
Maybe that was why the policeman from earlier looked at me so strangely. I must have seemed disturbed to him, sleeping in my car on the side of the road, when I could have spent the night in such an ideal location.
As I got out of my car, I smelled the unmistakable smell of several dishes cooking. The staff must have been busy preparing the lunch, even though it was still mid-morning.
A light breeze had picked up, causing a colored glass chime to twirl and tinkle lightly under the covered overhang of the entrance. The gray gravel spread all over the floor crunched under my every step, until I reached the dark gray stone pavement leading to the building. And when I finally entered the building, I found myself in front of an all-wooden counter, behind which stood an old woman with greying hair and curious half-circle glasses on her nose.
Immediately she welcomed me, and then began to observe me carefully from head to toe.
"Ah, it's you..." She said with a frown.
Did she know me?
I didn't remember meeting her before.
She quickly looked at something in the notebook set in front of her, then looked up at me.
"She told me you would come, sooner or later," Said the old woman. "I guess you chose the former, and came early, after all."
Then, without getting up, she pointed to the large wooden staircase that led up to the upper floor.
"First door on your left," she said without elaborating further.
Clearly, my blackmailer was waiting for me upstairs. Perfect. At least I wouldn't waste time trying to explain the situation to the woman at the front desk.
I was about to move toward the stairs, when the old woman tapped three times on her desk, presumably to get my attention.
I turned to her, and she pointed to my feet and then to the lockers next to the large sliding door I had entered by.
Ah, she wanted me to take off my shoes. And already she was no longer paying attention to me, absorbed in reading a fishing magazine.
I complied, and having put on some brightly colored slippers, I finally went upstairs. I found myself in a large hallway with five, maybe six doors on either side of the stairs I had just climbed. And following the directions of the woman who seemed to be an employee, or maybe even one of the business owners, I was now standing in front of a door of some kind, motionless.
I was about to open it, when the impossible happened again.
I heard a voice coming from inside the room, and by pure reflex, my hand had stopped on the door handle. I suddenly felt the irrepressible urge to enter, to push that door open, and to see what was behind it. Because the voice I heard, was one I recognized.