“Bedtime.” I tug the comic book out of his hands and lay it down on his desk. “Time to go to sleep.”

“I’m not tired.”

“I bet you’re more tired than you think.”

“I bet I’m not.”

But he obediently puts his head on the pillow. I turn off the lights, but the moonlight is still streaming through the window by his bed. Even though we have shades, he usually keeps them up. The whites of his eyes almost seem to be glowing in the moonlight.

“Mom?” he says.

I perch myself at the edge of his bed. “Yes?”

“Do you think that if a person does a bad thing, that makes them a bad person?”

“Well, what kind of bad thing?”

His eyes grow larger. “A really bad thing.”

He must be thinking about his father. It must have been so jarring for him to wake up this morning to the police in our house. What will he think if they arrest Enzo?

He is watching me, waiting for my answer. After everything I have been through in my own life, I have a unique perspective on this. I have done some bad things. Some really bad things. I have killed somebody. Actually, more than one somebody.

Nico doesn’t know about that though. We have kept that secret from our children. One of these days, they will almost certainly find out. And I am terrified that when it happens, they will hate me.

“I think,” I say, “that a person can do bad things and still be a good person. As long as they were doing the bad thing for the right reason.”

“You can do bad things for a good reason?”

“Absolutely. Like, we both know lying is wrong, right?”

He nods.

“Well, what if Ada got a haircut and it looked bad. And she asked you how it looked, and you told her it looked pretty because you didn’t want to hurt her feelings. That would be lying, but it would be for a good reason. Does that make sense?”

“Yes…”

“Does that answer your question?”

“Not really,” he says. “Because lying about a haircut isn’t something really bad.”

A chill runs down my spine. “Well, what sort of thing do you have in mind?”

Where were you all those times you swore you were with Spencer Archer?

I watch my son’s face, waiting to see what he’s going to say. But he just shrugs. Whatever he’s done, he’s not talking.

Before I can probe further, there’s a knock at the door. It’s Enzo, ready to take his turn saying good night. I’m still not sure what Nico was asking about. It seems like he has something very specific in mind, but it doesn’t look like he’s going to tell me what it is. Maybe Enzo will answer his questions better than I can.

FIFTY-EIGHT

It’s a rare thing that all four of us are gathered around the breakfast table.

Since the kids didn’t eat their pancakes yesterday, I am making chocolate chip pancakes again today. It’s nothing amazing. I am using the pancake batter that comes from the grocery store, where all I have to do is add water and mix. Then I pour little circles into the frying pan with lots of oil. I use way too much oil for my pancakes. I am basically deep frying them, but the kids love it. Actually, Enzo does too.

And then my final touch is the chocolate chips. I put about eight or nine chips in each pancake. I try to make the chocolate chips look like happy faces. It is only partially successful.

“Smells good, Millie,” Enzo says. His voice sounds cheerful, but he must be at least a little panicked inside after what Cecelia told him yesterday.

Finally, I lay out four heaping plates of pancakes on the table. The kids dig in with more gusto than yesterday. For all they know, this mess with the police is all over.

“It is raining now but it will stop this afternoon,” Enzo comments. “Nico, we should practice baseball again when I get back from work.”

“Do you think they would let me on a Little League team again next year?” Nico asks around a mouth full of pancakes.

I’m not sure about the rules, but after punching a kid in the gut, Nico might be banned for life. “I am not sure,” Enzo says, “but maybe over the summer, we practice soccer instead. We get you just as good as at baseball. Okay?”

Nico nods. “Okay!”

It’s this perfect calm family moment that I dreamed of when I first saw this house. The four of us, sitting around the breakfast table in the kitchen, eating pancakes. If I could take a family photo, it would be at this very moment.

And then the doorbell rings, spoiling everything.

“I get it.” Enzo leaps out of his seat so quickly, I’m worried he already knows who is at the door. “Will be right back.”

Of course, I follow him. Whatever is going on, I want to know what it is. At this point, I’m fairly sure nothing good is waiting on the other side of that door.

When I get out to the foyer, Enzo has already opened the front door. Cecelia is standing there, her pants suit drenched, her blond hair plastered to her head from the rain. If she were wearing any makeup, it would be running down her face.

“Come in,” Enzo tells her. “You are soaked!”

Even though Cecelia is dripping wet, she barely seems to notice as she pushes past us into the foyer. “I’m glad I got here in time. We need to talk.”

I look over at the kitchen, making sure the kids aren’t standing at the entrance, listening in. I have a feeling whatever Cecelia has to say, I don’t want the kids to hear it.

“Do you want to sit down?” I ask her. “I can get you a towel or⁠—”

“The police are on their way here to arrest you, Enzo,” Cecelia interrupts me.

Even though she warned me yesterday, this revelation knocks the wind out of me. Enzo looks equally shaken.

“The police gave me a heads-up this morning as a courtesy.” She pushes a few strands of wet hair from her face. “They are obtaining a warrant for your arrest, and I would expect they will be here shortly. I got here as fast as I could so we could talk before it happens.”

“Why?” he cries. “What do they have? They have nothing.”

“Benito had some information for me,” she says. “We talked while I was driving here. As I told you yesterday, they did find something when they were here. They found what they believe is the murder weapon.”

“Is ridiculous!” Enzo rants. “Murder weapon? What—one of our kitchen knives?”