"I have an inkling," he admitted. That must have been disquieting for Javert, more so than Trevelyan's cryptic little hints had been. If he could compare it to any of his recent experiences, he would have to pick chatting with Thursday over lunch. She'd seemed convinced that he was from a film, but mercifully she hadn't mentioned his death. (If he had died at all and this wasn't just a British ploy, which was admittedly becoming less and less likely.)

How strange. Javert must have thought that the shame of his suicide was private. Trevelyan wondered how many other people knew.

Taking one of his own pens, he scrawled on an addendum to the girl's note, two words. All right, he could have been a complete prick and poked fun at Javert for it, but his sense of self-assurance was slowly spiraling away. It wasn't too unlikely that he could be fictitious himself, could it? Unless Thursday was crazy. Then Javert would be a fictional character within another work of fiction, and that would just be, for lack of a better word, insane.