I am nervous about the implications. Is he trying to keep me from getting closer to Alice, or does he want me to himself now, at night?

“And,” she says, excitedly, “he went to buy us groceries so you can help me cook—things that only go in the microwave so I don’t set the house on fire!” She giggles then. “That’s what he said.”

I smile now. And it comes from my heart. My heart that turns darker every moment I spend here.

“So we can make dinner tonight?”

“Yes,” she says. “I even asked him for the Jell-O like you said.”

My smile grows bigger. My heart darkens another shade.

“Is he going to come home to eat with us?”

Alice shrugs. “I don’t know. I never know anymore. Not since you came.”

Information, I think. New information. I have been distracted by thoughts of poison. Poisonous thoughts. I should have thought to ask the questions that are now before me.

“What did he do before?” I ask now. I want to fire them off, all of them, but I speak slowly and wait patiently. I am just making conversation. Passing the time. Getting to know her better.

Alice shrugs again. “Sometimes he would come home and bring dinner. He likes to watch TV until he falls asleep.”

Patience. Patience.

“My husband likes to do that. He watches things I don’t like so I usually read. What does he watch on the television?”

Alice shrugs. Sad Face now.

“Does he not let you watch with him?” I ask, guessing about the head-spinning change in her mood.

“He doesn’t like to be here at night anymore. And I don’t like being alone.”

I consider this. And I tread carefully forward.

“Is it because of what happened to your first mommy? Maybe that makes him sad to be here without her.”

Yes, I think. I need to know these things. Did he love her? Did she live here behind a prison grate? Or did she love him, too? Were they once family that went wrong? Very, very wrong?

I will stay here all day if I have to. Asking questions. Doing schoolwork. Asking questions. Eating peanut butter sandwiches. Asking questions. Playing with our dolls, Hannah and Suzannah.

But she doesn’t answer. Sad Face is morphing into Angry Face.

“That’s okay,” I say, trying to turn her mood again.

“You don’t have to talk about it. I bet it makes you sad too. You know what I think?” I ask.

She shrugs.

“I think you loved your first mommy.”

Sad Face, and with it are more tears. They are tears I haven’t seen before. They run down cheeks that are bright red, with sobs that are uncontrollable. They are real, these tears, and I know I have struck gold.

“Oh, sweetheart! I know. I know . . .”