Harry had finished A Kiss Before Dying by the time he returned to school that year. It turned out to be one of those books in which order is restored, but not before a lot of damage had been done. Harry liked the book, but it had left him feeling empty and sad. Instead of bringing it back with him to Mather, he’d left it in the bookshelf in his room. He pulled it out now, looked at his father’s inscription: To Harry with love from Dad. He quickly closed the book and put it back on the shelf. A few months earlier, Harry thought he knew his father, inside and out. Now, he realized he didn’t know him at all.

His phone buzzed, a text coming through.

Come by tonight any time. Just ring the front doorbell and I’ll come let you in.

Harry wrote back—okay—then went back downstairs to check on Alice.

She was still in the sunroom, still tucked up asleep on the short sofa in the same position. She looked deeply asleep.

While Alice slept through the afternoon, Harry tidied up around the kitchen, finding a frozen pizza in the freezer, and cooking it for dinner, even though he wasn’t hungry, and doubted that Alice was, either. When she finally awoke, she wandered into the kitchen, empty glass in her hand, and asked Harry what time it was.

“Dinnertime,” he said. “You really slept.”

“I dreamt I woke up and you were gone, and I started to look for you, asking everyone I knew, but everyone told me you’d never existed. And then I was asking about your father, and it turned out he never existed, either.”

“Scary,” Harry said. “Are you hungry?”

“Maybe in a minute. I’m going to go see what’s on the TV.”

Alice turned on the television to the only channel she really watched—HGTV. A couple—a striking blonde and her dark-haired husband—were putting an offer on a California ranch house they wanted to renovate and flip. Harry brought Alice a plate with a slice of the pizza on it. “Thank you, Harry. Who knew you were so handy in the kitchen?”

“It was frozen.”

“It’s what your father used to make for dinner when I wasn’t around.”

“Oh,” Harry said, wanting to apologize. Instead, he said, “So you really think it was Annie Callahan’s husband?”

“I know it was. I think I knew it when I first heard what happened to your father, but I didn’t trust myself.”

“Do you think she was the only one . . . the only other—”