The dark is endless, rich and thick. The Inspector takes it in and does not choke, does not suffocate, as if drawing oxygen from the wings of moths. She wonders if all this has been a dying woman’s fancy: if she is lying on the road outside Hunter’s house that first day, murdered by a pale ghost—or whether she is drowning in Santorini amid the stunned fish. The rich music of the earthquake is playing in her, too deep to be sound, too intimately clear to be imagined.