And Natasha is suddenly alone.

She looks to her house. The upstairs windows. The fence door. Up and down the sidewalk. To the house again. Up. Down. The windows.

No gunshots. Why not?

No loud voices.

Why not?

Where is she?

She thinks of Dad’s smile at the foot of the basement stairs. Thinks of Mom struggling to run to the driveway. When’s the last time Quincy moved like that?

Across the street, neighbors peer out their windows. Two young kids watch from an open garage.

The Samhattan High School basketball team isn’t just the top news in the city, it’s the only story.

And the killer is inside her house.

Something fundamental has changed inside Natasha. She knows she will not be funny anymore.

“Mom?”

Quincy went inside. The police are inside. Dad is inside.

Daphne is too.

Dad cries out from the basement.

“Dad!”

Do the police know he’s down there? Trying to fix a table for his family?

And Mom. She’s downstairs with Dad. She must be. She ran to him.

Okay.

Natasha runs to him too.

She climbs the front steps. The front door is partially open, and she can see the length of hall from the foyer to the kitchen.

Where are the police?

She shouldn’t go inside. She knows this.

But Dad…

She enters. Goes to the basement door.

“Dad? Mom?”

She hurries down the steps, sees the rag Dad left on the stack of magazines. Dad, who silently says I love you every chance he gets. Dad, who puts up with Quincy’s drinking. Dad, who’s put up with a daughter who hasn’t shut up in seventeen years. Dad, who, with Mom, stands facing the dark, far side of the basement, their backs to Natasha.

She reaches the concrete floor. Stops.

Quincy doesn’t turn to Natasha when she says,

“Go back upstairs, Nat. Someone’s down here with us.”

Dad holds a wrench. Mom a hammer.

And the feeling that there is still something worse to experience rises in Natasha.

She doesn’t go back upstairs. She takes a step deeper into the basement and sees, beyond Dad’s workbench:

Daphne.

“He’s back there somewhere,” Quincy says.

“If you’re down here,” Dad says, “I’ll kill you.”

They can’t see her, Natasha knows. As big as the wall and they can’t see her.

“Mom, listen to me. She’s looking right at you.”

Can’t move. Can’t make a decision. Too heavy. Changed.

Daphne doesn’t move either. She stares at Natasha, her head cocked, ear flat to the ceiling beam; she’s too big down here by a foot.

“All three of us are going to walk upstairs now,” Natasha says, forced steadiness in her voice. “Mom…Dad…”

Quincy turns to her now. She believes her, Natasha knows. Believes her daughter is seeing something she cannot.

“Now,” Natasha says.

“I’ll kill you,” Dad says again. But Natasha cuts him off.

“Now.”

Not funny. Never again.

The three back up to the basement stairs. Natasha takes the wrench from Dad, pushes her parents along. Up. Hurry. Go. Careful. But GO.