When I peer out the window this time, I don’t see any signs of movement. But I saw it before. Just a second ago. I’m sure of it. “I don’t think they are.”

He winks at me. “So we give them show.”

I stare at him.

“Fine,” he grumbles. “How about we turn out the lights?”

“Fine.”

Enzo crawls off me so that he can flick off the light switch, plunging the room into darkness.

I squirm on the sheets, unable to wrench my gaze away from the bare window. “Do you ever wonder about why we got this house so cheap?”

“Cheap?” Enzo bursts out. “We had to use all our savings to pay the deposit! And the mortgage is⁠—”

“We got it below asking though,” I point out. “Nothing was selling for below asking.”

“Is fixer-upper.”

“So were all the others.” I prop myself up in bed. “And we weren’t able to win the auction on any of them.”

Enzo flashes me an exasperated look. “We get you your dream house, and now you have problem with dream house? We got lucky! Why is that so hard to believe?”

Because let’s face it—I am never lucky.

“Millie…” Enzo says in that husky voice that he knows I find impossible to resist. “Let us enjoy our first night in our dream house. Yes?”

He climbs back into the bed beside me, and at this point, I’m helpless to resist his charms. But I manage to take one last look out the window, and even though it’s all the way across the street, I swear I can make out a pair of eyes on my body.

Watching us.

FIVE

Today, the kids are starting at their new school.

Ada puts on the dress that I picked out for her first day. It’s sleeveless and pale pink, and if my son wore it, it would be smeared with dirt and grease probably before he even got out the front door, but she loves it and will almost certainly manage to keep it clean. As for Nico, I’m just happy he managed to put on some clean clothes that didn’t have any holes in them.

I was advised that the school bus stops in front of 13 Locust Street, so I herd the kids out the door, past Suzette’s house at 12 Locust, over to the house of the neighbor that I’ve been convinced has been staring at us through our shutterless windows since yesterday. Sure enough, there’s a woman and a child waiting at the bus stop, but they’re not what I expected.

First of all, the woman is older than I expected. I’m not the youngest mother among the parents of my kids’ friends, but this woman looks old enough to be my mother. She is bone thin with wiry gray hair and spindly fingers that almost look like claws. And even though Suzette told me her son is Nico’s age, the little boy at her side appears at least two years younger. He’s just as emaciated as his mother, and even though it’s a warm spring day, he’s wearing a thick wool turtleneck sweater that looks extremely itchy and uncomfortable.

Of course, maybe she’s not his mother. Maybe she’s his grandmother. She certainly looks old enough to be his grandmother. But I would never ask. I’m no Suzette. That’s one of those things you don’t say to a person when you first meet them, along the same lines as, “Are you pregnant?” (Stupid lumpy shirt.)

As I approach them, the woman narrows her eyes at me through her horn-rimmed spectacles. I can’t help but notice the silver chain attached to her glasses, which is something I had always associated with elderly people, although one of Ada’s friends back in the Bronx wore one, so maybe they’re cool again.

“Hello!” I say cheerfully, determined to befriend this woman. After all, I would love to make some friends in Long Island. Oops, I mean on Long Island.

The woman shoots me a half-hearted smile that is more like a grimace. “Hello,” she says in the most expressionless tone I have ever heard.

“My name is Millie,” I say.

She stares at me, a hollow look in her eyes. This is when most people would tell me their name, but she apparently didn’t get the memo.

“And these are Nico and Ada,” I add.

Finally, she places a hand on the little boy’s shoulder. “This is Spencer,” she says. “I’m Janice.”

The boy suddenly shifts, revealing what looks like a hook on the bottom of his backpack, which has an attachment coming off it that the woman is holding on to. Oh my God—it’s a leash. The poor child is on a leash!

“Nice to meet you,” I say. Or should I say good dog? “I hear Spencer is in… third grade…?”

It seems impossible as I’m saying it. The little boy is nearly a head shorter than Nico, who is average height for his age. But the boy, Spencer, nods his head. “Yes,” he confirms.

“Cool!” Nico’s eyes light up. “I have Mrs. Cleary as my teacher. Who do you got?”

“Who do you have,” Janice corrects him.

Nico peers up at her, blinking his dark brown eyes. “I said I have Mrs. Cleary,” he says in a slow voice, like he thinks she’s stupid. I stifle a laugh.

Before Janice can clarify that she was attempting to correct his grammar, Spencer bursts out with, “Me too! I have Mrs. Cleary too!”

The boys start chatting together excitedly, which makes me happy. Nico is so outgoing, he’s able to befriend even the shiest kids. I envy his skill.

I flash Janice a conspiratorial smile. “Well, it looks like Nico has made his first friend here.”

“Yes,” Janice says with considerably less enthusiasm.

“Maybe they can have a playdate sometime?”

“Maybe.” She frowns as the lines crisscrossing her face grow more pronounced. “Has your son had all his vaccinations?”

All public schools require a full set of vaccinations, and I’m sure she knows this. But fine—I’ll humor her. “Yes.”

“Including influenza?”

It’s not even flu season, but whatever. “Yes.”

“You can’t be too careful, you know,” she says. “Spencer is very fragile.”

Admittedly, the boy does look a bit fragile, with his nearly translucent skin and tiny body, swimming in that giant woolen sweater. But some color has come into his cheeks now that he is chatting with Nico.

“It would be nice to get to know each other since I’m new here,” I say. “My husband and I are having dinner with Suzette and Jonathan tonight.”

“Oh.” Her lips curl in distaste. “I would watch yourself around that woman.” She gives me a knowing look. “And I would especially watch that handsome husband of yours.”

I don’t like what she’s implying. Yes, Suzette is very attractive, and yes, she was a bit over-the-top flirtatious. But I trust my husband—he’s not going to cheat on me with the next-door neighbor. I’m also not thrilled that Janice has taken it upon herself to comment on this.

“Suzette seems… nice,” I say politely, even though I’m not sure I believe it.