“Also,” he adds, “I know better than to double-cross you. I would like to keep breathing.”

I snort. “Yeah, right.”

“How can you say you’re worried about Suzette?” he retorts. “Suzette… she is the one who needs to worry.”

“Ha ha, very funny.”

“I am not making a joke,” he says, although his lips twitch. “I am scared of you, Millie Accardi.”

I make a face at him. “Right. Like you’re Mr. Nice Guy.”

Truth be told, we have both done some pretty bad things. Unspeakable things, although I’d like to think they were all in the name of serving justice. But either way, if you made a tally, I would come out far ahead of my husband. I’ve done much worse things than he has. After all, he’s never done anything so bad that they took away his freedom.

But of course, that’s only the stuff I know about. I get the feeling that Enzo had a whole life back overseas that I don’t know about. I once worked up the nerve to ask him if he ever killed anyone, and he laughed like I was making a joke, but he didn’t say no. And then he quickly found a way to change the subject.

I only asked the one time. Because after that, I wasn’t sure I wanted to know.

Enzo runs a finger slowly along my jawline. “Millie…” he whispers.

I glance over my shoulder, at the window where moonlight pours into our bedroom. “When are you going to put in those blinds?”

“Tomorrow. I promise.”

I close my eyes, trying to enjoy the sensation of my husband’s touch and then his lips on my neck. But with my eyes closed, I become aware of something else. A sound from somewhere else in the house.

My eyes fly open. “Do you hear that?” I ask him.

He lifts his head from my neck. “Hear what?”

“That sound. It sounds like… something scraping.”

It’s a very disturbing sound. It almost sounds like nails on a chalkboard. Again and again and again.

And it’s coming from somewhere within the house.

He grins at me. “Maybe is man with hook for hand on roof?”

I smack the top of his head. “I’m serious! What is that?”

We both lie there for a moment, listening. And of course, that’s when the sound stops.

“I do not hear it,” Enzo says.

“Well, it stopped.”

“Oh.”

“But what was it?”

“Was probably the house settling.”

“House settling?” I make a face at him. “That’s not a thing. You just made that up right now.”

“Yes, is a thing. And anyway, are you the big expert on houses? Houses make noises. It is a house noise. No big deal.”

I’m not sure I agree, but at the same time, I can’t very well argue now that the noise has stopped.

He raises his eyebrows. “So… may I continue?”

I’m not feeling super amorous after listening to that scraping sound coming from within the house, coupled with the completely exposed window. But Enzo is already kissing my neck again, and I have to say, it is extremely hard to ask him to stop.

TEN

Thursday is my morning off.

The kids walk to the bus stop by themselves, like they have been doing since yesterday. I’m sure Janice is traumatized when the two of them show up all alone, but I’m not too worried about it. I do watch them from one of the windows in the front of the house (which now has blinds—thank you, Enzo), and I watch the bus collect them and carry them away to school.

They’re fine. Motherhood is a state of constant low-grade worrying, but I refuse to be the type of woman who puts her child on a leash. At some point, you have to let go even if it drives you nuts.

Once they’re gone, the house is so quiet. Ada generally keeps to herself, but Nico is always a whirlwind of activity. When he’s not home, the house seems deathly still. It was quiet back when we were in a small apartment, but now that we are in a larger house (albeit cozy), it’s so much more quiet. I think our house has echoes. Echoes.

I don’t know what to do with myself. Maybe I’ll make myself some breakfast and read a book.

I walk over to the kitchen and pull out a carton of eggs. As I get older, I’ve been trying to eat healthy, and I’ve heard eggs are pretty healthy if you don’t fry them in oil or butter. (Which seems patently unfair, because that’s what makes them taste the best.) So I’ve started the water boiling for my oil/butter-free egg when the doorbell rings.

I hurry over to the front door and fling it open without checking who is out there, because that’s the sort of neighborhood I live in now. Back when we lived in the Bronx, I never opened the front door without checking who was waiting on the other side. If it was someone I didn’t recognize, I demanded ID to be held up to the peephole. But this neighborhood is so safe. I don’t have to worry about anything anymore.

But I am extremely surprised to see Martha—Suzette’s cleaning woman—on the other side of the door, clothed in one of her flowered print dresses paired with a crisp white apron, a pair of rubber gloves in one hand and some sort of advanced mop in the other.

“Hello,” I say, because I’m not sure what else to say.

Martha stares at me with that same penetrating gaze, her broad face a mask. “It is Thursday. I am here to clean.”

What? I remember her mentioning that she was free on Thursdays, but I don’t remember agreeing to let her come. In fact, I distinctly remember trying to come up with a nice way of telling her we weren’t interested before I got distracted by Suzette insulting my pie. Would she just show up here without having confirmed the plans?

Did Suzette put her up to this?

“Um,” I say. “I… I appreciate you coming and all, but as I was saying the other night, we really don’t have…”

Martha does not budge. She’s not getting the message.

“Look,” I say, “we don’t… I mean, I can clean the house myself. You don’t need to⁠—”

“Your husband told me to come,” Martha interrupts me.

What? “He… he did?”

She nods almost imperceptibly. “He called me.”