They had a deck at the back and a small pond with goldfish and koi. There were wildflowers growing around it, daylilies, violet, and heartsease. Dad used to say that Americans had the seasons wrong, that summer started on May Day. When he was growing up they had a tradition of picking spring flowers—cowslip, buttercup, bluebell—and bringing them back to the house to scatter across thresholds, doors, and windowsills, so that nothing and no one would be taken from them that year. I looked at the Hunters’ flowers and picked six of each, rolled them in the bottom of my T-shirt, and tucked it into my cutoffs.

As I came back up the street, I could make out two cars in our driveway, a blue Oldsmobile I didn’t recognize and Wilson McVay’s dad’s Buick. The trunks of both cars were open. Marie’s trash-bag luggage was in the trunk of the Oldsmobile and the bike we shared was in the trunk of Wilson’s car, along with the turntable. My mother, Wilson, Marie, Marie’s friend Rae, and a man I had never seen before were all standing in a circle, talking and laughing. Rae waved at me as I came up the driveway and my mother turned.

“Libby, where’ve you been? We’ve been waiting. Marie has to go.”

“You’re taking the bike?” I asked her, but I really wanted to say You’ve brought him here, again? After everything she knew, I couldn’t believe she had asked him to help her move.

“It’s mine. So, yeah,” said Marie.

Everybody knew Wilson McVay was a head case, and yet my mother was completely untroubled. She was making introductions. “Libby, this is Rae’s father, Mr. Dixon. He’s helping Marie move.” Mr. Dixon put out his hand. “And Wilson’s helping too. I think you know him.” What was wrong with her?

Wilson stuck out his hand, the knuckles still visibly bruised, as if to shake mine. I stepped back from his outstretched hand, repelled. They all laughed, like I was making a joke.

“Really, Wilson, we are so grateful. It’s so good of you.” My mother was gushing. She had a strange imbalance of being rude when it counted—like to teachers or other parents or neighbors—and effusive when it wasn’t appropriate, like to the local delinquent who was wrecking our lives.

“I’m happy to do it, Faye, and when we get there I can help Marie move the boxes up the stairs.”

I nearly choked. Had he just called my mother by her first name? Had she told him to call her Faye instead of Mrs. Gallagher? What was wrong with everyone? A deranged psychopath was driving Marie to her new life, and everyone was behaving like this was normal.