“I’ve just been making the observation. We could easily walk into any house on this street. Half the people who summer here don’t lock their doors for the winter, and the ones that do don’t lock their windows.”

“What do you know?” Clara said, taking her hand away. “I know the people who live here. I grew up with them.”

“Then prove me wrong,” Max said.

“Not tonight, not tonight. My God”—Clara yawned dramatically—“I am exhausted.”

But she didn’t move to get up, and no one said anything for a while. The fire had subsided to a dull glow, two or three little spears of flame. Clara’s feet were propped up on the coffee table beside Max’s, and their toes were lightly touching. Whatever they said, Henry thought, these two wanted to be alone.

Down on the rug, on her back now, Alma turned a page of her book.

“What is it you’re so engrossed in down there?” Effie said.

Alma raised the book and looked down her nose at Effie, and when she saw that Effie was talking to her, she sat up and flipped the spine around as if to remind herself. “The Call of Cthulhu,” she said. “By H. P. Lovecraft.”

“You didn’t find that here, did you?” Clara asked.

Alma smiled. “Actually, I did.” She had beautiful teeth: very white but irregular, one canine more prominent than the other; it caught on her bottom lip.

“I don’t believe it,” Clara said. “Here—hand it over.”

With a sigh Alma scooched a few inches across the rug, lay on her side, and stretched her arm as if she could go no further. Clara had to lean forward to reach the book.

“I bet it’s Uncle Otto’s,” Clara said, looking at the cover, which was red and unmarked as far as Henry could see. “He goes in for this pulp-horror shit. It’s about monsters or something.”

“A giant sea monster,” Alma said, sitting up again and leaning on her hand. “And the secret cult that worships it. It’s sort of appropriate. It was up in my bedroom.”

It was the most she had said all day. Her voice was clear and light and assured, a very fine and precise line of sound. There was the hint of an accent, maybe French.

“It must be pretty good,” Effie said. “You’ve had your head buried in it all night.”

“I guess I go in for the pulp shit too.”

“Let me see it,” Max said, and he took it from Clara. He flipped a few pages and, in a baritone and English-accented voice, read: “‘I know not why my dreams were so wild that night, but ere the waning and fantastically gibbous moon…’”

Alma rolled slowly onto her knees and with a show of effort got to her feet. “All right,” she said. “I’m going for a walk.”