After William and I waved goodbye from the stoop, I took him up to the guest room across from the nursery to look around and think how I could lure Carlow inside, but the room was fairly devoid of interest. It was white and airy—white walls, a white textured rug and bedspread. A rolltop desk stood in one corner. I pulled up the wooden slats on the desk but it was like one at a hotel—a blank notepad sat on an otherwise empty desktop with tiny cursive letters at the top spelling out Laurel Nicole Bernard. I hadn’t put together until just then that Lonnie was a nickname. The realization made me feel foolish and slow.

I took a bath in Lonnie’s tub after William fell asleep that night. The master bathroom had the biggest tub in the house—a beautiful deep claw-foot that dipped in the middle like a banana split dish. I filled it up to the very top. There were no windows, but above the tub there was a strip of fogged glass running the length of the room, which during the day let in sun from the skylight covering the ceiling of the upstairs bathroom. The house was full of skylights and deftly placed mirrors allowing for natural light in every room. A purple passion plant trailed from a hanging planter over the tub, its fuzzy leaves nearly within arm’s reach as I soaked in the water. The night was cool, the bathroom steamy.

I stayed there for a long time and when I emerged I wandered into Lonnie’s bedroom. Her closet was already open, some of the clothes falling off hangers and onto the shoe rack below. I ran my hand over the fancier dresses, settled on a cotton shift dress, the kind she wore when Carlow came over. It was white with eyelet lace at the hem. I slipped it over my head, then found a skinny leather belt to wrap around my waist. In front of her oak-framed mirror I turned from side to side, pulling my hair up in one hand and letting it down again, examining myself. It wasn’t unflattering, though white looked better against her skin; I was still too pale. I’d started wearing skimpy shirts and shorts to work, avoiding the shade at the playground, trying to soak up as much color as possible. I knew I couldn’t match Lonnie’s golden hue, but I’d never been able to tan before—I’d alternated between white and pink in Oregon—then suddenly, that year, it started working, at least a little, my skin toasting like a marshmallow held carefully to a flame. I was fascinated by the slight variation.

My phone rang as I was standing there.