Grim-faced, Mat pointed a finger at Lucy. “You. Get in the Winnebago. The two of us are going to have a talk.”

She wasn’t stupid. She immediately snatched up Button as a human shield.

“Alone!” Mat boomed.

She set Button down, narrowed her eyes, lifted her chin, and marched toward the motor home.

Nealy watched her go and shook her head in admiration. “Are you sure she’s not your daughter?”

Mat ignored her and set out after the teenager, his lips compressed in a taut line. Worried, Nealy grabbed Button and began to follow him, only to stop herself. He looked like he was going to commit violence, but she knew better. Mat had some bite behind his bark, but she didn’t believe it was lethal.

And bark he did, until she expected the walls of the Winnebago to bulge. When she couldn’t stand it any longer, she carried Button inside to explore. They would be spending at least one night here, and she wanted to see the house.

In the back, a roomy, light-filled kitchen opened onto a wonderful sunporch. Cozy brown wicker furniture clustered around a worn Oriental rug, and a collection of mismatched tables held scholarly journals, back issues of Rolling Stone, and junk food refuse. Clay saucers that looked as if they’d once contained houseplants sat here and there, along with some pottery lamps. Through the windows, she caught sight of a small backyard defined by shrubs and a little grape arbor. The weedy flower bed contained several old rosebushes full of blossoms.

The upstairs held a bath and three bedrooms, the smallest of which had been converted into a storage room. A portable CD player, some scattered clothes, and an open book on Zen indicated that Nico occupied the master bedroom. In the guest room, an India cotton throw printed in blues and lavenders was tossed over the double bed, and simple woven curtains hung at the window. The bathroom was old-fashioned, charming, and in need of a good cleaning. Tiled in gray and white, the room held a clawfoot tub with a spray attachment, a wicker basket overflowing with out-of-date magazines, and an open window of honeycombed glass that looked out over the backyard and, in the distance, a sliver of the Iowa River.

She heard the side door slam and went downstairs to see that Mat had sealed himself behind the French doors of Joanne Pressman’s abandoned office, which looked as if it had once been the dining room. Through the glass, she saw him pick up the phone. Her spirits sank. He was beginning the process of divesting himself of the children.

“He didn’t hit me or anything.”

Lucy’s soft voice came from behind her, and Nealy turned to see her standing in the kitchen. Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes sad. She looked defeated, but determined not to show it.

“I didn’t think he would.”