In the living room, sitting in the armchair, there’s a woman in her early forties with olive skin and a mass of thick curly reddish-brown hair. She’s possibly Puerto Rican. Standing near her are a seven-year-old boy and a girl who’s not quite three. The boy is tossing a Nerf football into his sister’s waiting arms from about four feet away. Each time, she closes her arms a moment too late, letting the ball drop soundlessly to the floor, but each time, the girl is delighted by her own failure, squealing with laughter as her brother fetches the ball and tries again.

She looks up at me with clear blue eyes. They’re the eyes of her father, except on this child the eyes don’t look cold at all. They sparkle.

She’s the picture of innocence.

When I destroy this girl’s parents, I’ll destroy this girl’s world.

The thought hurts my heart. I look down at my hands and for a moment I imagine myself as Lady Macbeth, trying to scrub imaginary blood off my hands . . . and failing.

“Did it feel like you were winning when there was blood on your hands?”

Is that how Lander sees me too? As Lady Macbeth? Or does he see me as a muse? A work of art?

Jessica distracts me from my thoughts by bending down and throwing her arms open. “Give Mommy a hug, darlings!”

The girl doesn’t hesitate, throwing herself into her mother’s arms, almost knocking her backward, but the boy hangs back, the corners of his mouth turning down, his face darkening at the sight of his mother’s plastered-on smile.

So it would seem a few layers of the boy’s innocence have already been stripped away. Soon he’ll be as raw and bitter as the rest of us.

It isn’t a pleasant thought, but then, in the end, innocence is nothing more than a vulnerability. The innocent are the ones who are most frequently betrayed.

“Kamila,” Jessica says as she turns to the Puerto Rican woman, “don’t forget Mercedes has her gymnastic lessons today, and Braden has soccer after school.”

“Swim lessons,” the woman who was addressed as Kamila mumbles as she takes little Mercedes’s hand.

“Excuse me?” Jessica looks up at her, bewildered.

“She said Mercedes has swim lessons today,” Braden explains. I’m not sure I’ve ever heard a seven-year-old sound so condescending. “And today I have karate, not soccer.”

“Oh.” Jessica walks over to the sofa and sits down on the very edge of the cushion. She stares out the window as if searching the morning light for answers. “What day is it, Kamila?”

“It’s Monday, Mrs. Gable,” the nanny says patiently.

“Oh.”