Kaito kissed both of them before going back to work.

Izabel was sure she should never feel upset, not with a family as wonderful as hers. But as she fell back onto the couch, turning the cake show back on, about to find out who once took home a $10,000 prize, as she felt the ache in her back from bowing over a hundred little clothes like she’d said a hundred little prayers, as she arranged her head on a chintzy pillow that matched a vase and a throw and coordinated the room around a turquoise blue she once cared about, as she, Izabel, relaxed back into her life—she was upset.

    Chapter Seven

A week went by before there was another killing. Just as the news was calming down about it. Just as people were interested again in pictures of the new harvest of overgrown fruit, fist-sized strawberries, an artichoke the size of a basketball.

This time two people were killed, an older couple, Stacy and Kevin Hutchinson, in their sixties. Izabel could tell she felt less upset than when children had been killed, and she felt guilty about that. She caught herself thinking, They lived long lives, and, They survived the worst of it. They got ten more good years. But that was bullshit—she wanted more than thirty more years of her life.

From the morning news, she learned that the Hutchinsons had liked virtual golf and had volunteered at the community center. By the afternoon, the coverage was all about the next steps the town was going to take to prevent further killings.

A patrol would begin—electric cars would comb the grid of the town with newly installed cameras. And some would have police officers in them. Officers were already volunteering for night shifts. Izabel imagined the predictable pattern the cars would take, predictable enough for a person to plan around.

Next they had two people on the news to argue the pros and cons of implementing a curfew. One woman shouted, “Wouldn’t the killer be more noticeable if there were a curfew?”

The other woman said, “Families have a right to choose where they want to be at night to make themselves more comfortable.”

“So what, we’re going to have everyone sleep in the hospital again?”

“That’s not what I’m saying.”

Izabel thought about how they’d probably start the curfew soon regardless—and then the doorbell went off. She looked out one of the sheet-plastic windows near the front of the dome, and she saw a man walking up to their doors.

“Kaito!” she yelled.

She couldn’t not let the man in. She knew that. She didn’t want to kill him. But she felt a tightness in her throat knowing that she would let him into her house.

Kaito walked out of his office as the man walked through the doors.

“Good morning,” he said. “I’m Marcus.”