Compos Mentis

 I knew I’d just had it in my hand.

In fact, I thought it had just been . . . .here.

Hadn’t it?

I couldn’t find my library book, which was ridiculous because it’s an Elizabeth George, which means the hardbacks are larger than my toaster. This edition was a paperback version, but was still big enough to prop open a door on a windy day, definitely not the kind of thing to get lost between the sofa cushions.

Bathroom, bedroom, living room, kitchen, den.

Den, kitchen, living room, bedroom, bathroom.

Nothing.

After the third exasperated pass through the house, I began opening cupboards, closets, and the fridge.

Well, of course. Where else would you expect to find a 719-paged tale of murder than in the drawer dedicated to containers for leftovers?