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where she went to school. I’d ask Miranda next time we talked. Better still, I’d ask Paul Brady.
    Cheryl lived on the second floor, and I followed the concrete walkway around to the back of the building. Two guys in sweats and heavy trainers were playing an intense game under the hoops, the basketball mud-streaked from pounding the wet, grimy pavement. As soon as I opened Cheryl Dunkirk’s door, they stopped and looked up. I waved and went inside.
    No doubt the rent was cheap. The apartment had the basic layout: living room, with the regulation worn mushroom-colored carpet; an opening into a small kitchen—stove, refrigerator, no dishwasher; two bi-fold doors separated the washer and dryer from the hallway between the bedroom and the kitchen. On the other side of the living room, a small hall, with the bedroom on the left and the bathroom on the right.
    I smiled just a little. Cheryl and I were kindred spirits.
    To the untrained eye, the eye of one who is not a connoisseur of disorder, the living room would be shrugged off under the classification mess . Those who are compulsively neat are too distracted by panic to see a mess for what it is, or what it can be. Being disorderly myself meant that I was not blinded by conventional opinions.
    It was clear that Cheryl enjoyed her mess. The result was not so much a sloppy lifestyle as a personal expression of comfort. It was likely Cheryl’s pretense that the disorder was unconscious. But for those of us who are appreciative of the art, Cheryl’s mess was as studied and intricate as calculus, and inhabited space as boldly as red lipstick on a white ceramic mug. Her disorder had logic that would be difficult for anyone other than Cheryl to replicate.
    My number one observation: Cheryl’s state of disorder pushed others away, keeping them at the edges of intimacy, where they would fall or stick according to their nature, level of stubbornness, and sheer ability to endure. She had obvious standards. Garbage and old food were a violation of this unnatural order, and I would not expect to see either unless Cheryl was feeling particularly outrageous, generally hostile, or purposely trying to annoy someone, or possibly just very short of time. Cheryl’s priority in life was her work, made clear by the stacks of manuals on the floor, the neat piles of notes, the computer that was only lightly layered with dust and completely absent of clutter. The web of wires that come with technology were not disguised or hidden; judging from the proliferation of this intricately entwined population, the cords and plugs seemed “in your face” enough to be downright celebrated. There were ATF manuals, and several books on forensics and crime scene investigation, all with an EKU bookstore sticker on the spine. Textbooks.
    An open phone book, one of my personal cluttering favorites, was facedown on the floor no more than eighteen inches from the front door. I picked it up, gratified to find it open to a list of pizza places. I was liking Cheryl now; she was no longer in the category of good-looking and vulnerable young victim. She was real.
    An EKU sweatshirt hung over a lampshade, an arrangement that was perfectly safe as there was no bulb in the socket. My guess was that the shirt was a reminder for Cheryl to pick up lightbulbs the next time she was out.
    A second stack of books, including the Revised Legal Statutes of Kentucky , were piled just left of center of the computer where they were visible, ready to hand, and in no danger of being toppled. Location, location, location.
    An absolutely mad disarray of opened, half-folded, and occasionally wadded and smudgy newspapers seemed to be a useful and inexpensive way to fill a corner. Magazines added a welcome touch of color— Vogue, The Economist , and two law enforcement journals. Clearly, Cheryl was a well-dressed conservative.
    Coffee mugs (inevitable) were placed around the room with a harmonious