“Never reads, never shows any interest in—but she’s a good kid … never had a boyfriend, either. Never dated. Ever. I guess we should be grateful she’s never gotten into any sort of trouble with boys … but now that she’s in college … also, she doesn’t share much.”

“About?”

“What’s going on with her, her feelings. Her life. She used to share, everything’s lip service, now. Love you Daddy, love you Mommy, then she’s off by herself.”

“But her mood’s okay.”

“She seems happy to me,” said Goldfeder.

“So she likes her privacy.”

“I guess, but I can’t stop wondering if she’s holding back. She’s an only child, we put a lot into her—this all probably sounds neurotic, maybe it is, I don’t know.”

I said, “Sounds like parental concern.”

“I guess I should stop being a pain—you’ll meet her, you be the judge. Okay, back to your question: She didn’t say much about what happened yesterday, just that she was running and saw it. She could tell right away it was dead from the color and the blood, some flies were already there. She said that freaked her out the most, the flies, the noise they made. She felt light-headed but she didn’t faint, she kept her wits about her, called 911 and stuck around. Overall, I’d have to say I’m proud of how she handled it.”

“You should be.”

“Basically, she’s a great kid … I’ll go get her.”

The girl who preceded him down the stairs seconds later had lopped off most of her hair since posting her Facebook shot, massive mane giving way to a crew cut. Her features were delicate and symmetrical. Huge, deep blue eyes connoted wonder.

She smiled and waved as she bounced down on stick-legs, seemed to take flight only to alight with grace. I thought: Tinker Bell.

Her father worked to keep up with her.

When she reached the bottom, she kissed his cheek. “Go back to work, Daddy, I’m fine.”

“I’ve got paperwork to do in the study.”

“Oh, Daddy. Really. He looks like a nice man. I don’t need a chaperone.”

“I’m not trying to be one, baby, there are bills to be paid.”

“So organized.” She giggled. “Okay, go to your study but close the door.”

“I intended to.”

“Sure you did.”

Howard Goldfeder’s reply was inaudible as he headed up the hall. Looking back for a second, he shut his door.

Heather said, “He’s protective ’cause he loves me,” and sat down perpendicular to me. She had on an oversized, sleeveless white blouse, khaki shorts, flat sandals. Skinny limbs but none of the ropy dehydration of severe anorexia. Lovely teeth, as her father had claimed. No evidence of breast development but the shirt would hide a less-than-generous bust.

“Well,” she said, “my therapy begins.”

I laughed.

“What’s funny?” she said.