In Hunter’s house, I find out no more than I did from looking at her corpse. It is the strangest place, like a pencil sketch of a person. It tells you so much about her, fills in all the blanks, and yet it leaves you no wiser at the end. In the books and the pictures, in the half-finished manifestos and the ridiculous Faraday cage, you see the broad shape of a rebel mind—I find I rather like my dead former target—but not the close pattern of the woman.