And her intelligence is a mystery too.
“Ada.” I climb into her small bed, curling up beside her warm body. In a few years, she won’t let me do this, so I’m going to enjoy it for now. “I’m going to live a long time, probably after you have kids, and maybe even after your kids have kids. And your dad… Well, he’s probably going to live forever.”
If anyone in this world is immortal, it’s Enzo, so it could very well be true.
“Then why do you need life insurance?”
This conversation could potentially go on the rest of the night. “Ada,” I say, “you need to stop worrying and get some sleep.”
She squirms under the covers. “Is Dad coming in?”
Right now, both of our kids require both parents to say good night before they can fall asleep. It’s a routine that is simultaneously sweet and exhausting. After I’m done with Ada, my next stop will be Nico’s room. That’s probably where Enzo is now. We can trade off.
“I’ll send him in next,” I say.
That gets a smile out of her. As much as I hate to admit it, Ada is a total daddy’s girl—from the moment she was born. I remember when she was an infant, there was one day when she was screaming her head off for two straight hours, and the second Enzo came home from work and held her, she quieted down in an instant. So if anybody can make her feel better, it’s him.
When I arrive at Nico's room, I expected to see Enzo and Nico together in the room, feeding some flies to the praying mantis or something horrible like that. But Enzo isn’t in the room. Nico is alone in his bedroom, and the lights are already out, although his eyes are still open.
“Tired?” I ask him.
“Kind of.”
I squint through the darkness at his face. He also has similar features to Enzo, although I suppose he looks more like me between the two of my children, which isn’t saying much. We named him Nicolas after Enzo’s father. “Is everything okay?”
“Mm-hmm.”
Nico has the praying mantis right by the head of his bed. It’s a little hard to see in the mesh enclosure, but when I finally spot the long thin insect, I can see its little hands rubbing together. That bug definitely looks like it’s plotting something. I know boys are into bugs, but why would anyone want something like that inside their bedroom? Is there something wrong with him?
No. There’s nothing wrong with Nico. He is the happiest, most well-adjusted kid ever. Everyone loves him.
I cringe as I lean past the enclosure to kiss my son on the forehead. Tomorrow, I’ll have to talk to him about moving it. Maybe to the other side of the room, or possibly out of the house entirely.
“Good night,” I say.
“G’night, Mom,” he says sleepily.
As I pull away, I glance out the window. It’s close to a full moon tonight, illuminating our perfectly trimmed backyard. By the summer, I bet we will have the best yard in town. Enzo will make sure of that.
But my eyes are drawn to something outside our own backyard:
The Lowells’ yard.
I thought Enzo was in the house, saying good night to the children like I am, but he isn’t. For some reason, he is in the neighbors’ backyard. But he’s not working. He’s standing next to Suzette, and they’re talking.
I watch them for a moment from within the darkness of my son’s bedroom. It could be entirely innocent. After all, they’re neighbors and they have been working on the yard together. But there’s something about it that hits me wrong. After all, it’s ten o’clock at night. Why would my husband be out in the backyard with another woman?
He doesn’t touch her. He certainly doesn’t kiss her or anything like that. They seem to just be talking. But there’s still something about it that makes me uneasy.
I can’t shake the feeling that Enzo is hiding something from me.
EIGHTEEN
It’s six in the morning, and someone is breaking into our house.
It’s not the scraping noise this time, which I have heard a handful more times since I tried to investigate. I’ve convinced myself that the scraping must just be a branch somewhere, which scrapes against one of the windows downstairs, but this is a very different kind of sound. These are loud noises. Footsteps. A door slamming. It’s loud enough to make me sit up in bed, even though my husband is still snoring softly in the bed beside me. This is supposed to be a safe neighborhood. Stuff like this isn’t supposed to happen here.
A resounding thump from downstairs has me sitting bolt upright. Is this one of those home invasions? If it is, what do we do? We don’t have a gun. Enzo used to keep one in our apartment, but after Ada was born, he got rid of it. He was terrified of her finding it and hurting herself.
I’ll just have to call 911 and hope they get here quickly.
Enzo is sound asleep beside me, completely unaware of the home invasion in progress. He came to bed so late last night, I never had a chance to ask him what he’d been doing with Suzette in her backyard. And now it’s the last thing on my mind.
I shake my husband awake, more aggressively than necessary. “Enzo,” I hiss. “Someone broke into the house. I’m calling the police.”
“Che?” He rubs his eyes. His accent is heavier first thing in the morning. “Broke in?”
“Don’t you hear them?”
He listens for a moment, while I practically want to scream. “Is Martha? No?”
“Martha? How did Martha end up in our house at six in the morning? How did she get in?”
“I give her key.”
I stare at him, horrified. “You gave her the key? Why?”
“Why? So she will not wake you up when she comes in to clean!” He groans and throws his head back against the pillow. “Go to sleep, Millie!”
