Mickey was a terrible actor.

“Nice to see you too,” Myron said. “Hi, Ema.”

“Hey, Myron,” Ema said.

Ema, the girl Dad described using the color black, was what they used to call goth and then they called emo (ergo the nickname), and Myron wasn’t hip enough to know what they called it now. Everything was indeed in black against the palest white skin achievable. Mickey and Ema had started out as friends, best friends even, but somewhere through their bonding, Myron now wondered whether the friendship line had been crossed.

Mickey gave his grandfather a kiss on the cheek. He turned to his grandmother and said, “You look beautiful, Grandma.”

“Don’t call me that.”

“Call you what?”

“Grandma. I told you. I’m too young to be your grandmother. Call me Ellen. And if anyone asks, tell them I’m your grandfather’s second, much-younger trophy wife.”

“Got it,” Mickey said.

“Now give your Ellen a kiss.”

He hopped up the step into the kitchen. Whenever Mickey moved, the house shook. He gave her a kiss and a hug. Myron watched, swallowing hard. Then Mickey turned toward Myron.

“Are you crying?” Mickey asked.

“No,” Myron said.

“Why is he crying?” Mickey turned to his grandmother. “Why is he always crying?”

“He’s always been an emotional boy; pay no attention.”

“I’m not crying,” Myron said. He looked around the room and found no solace. “I got something in my eye.”

“I need someone to help me set the table,” Mom said.

Mickey said, “I got it.”

“No,” Mom said. “I want Ema to help me.”

“I’d love to, Mrs. Bolitar,” Ema said.

“Ellen,” Mom said, correcting her. “So are you and Mickey a thing now? What do the kids say? Dating? Hooking up?”

Mickey was mortified. “Grandma!”

“Oh, never mind, Ema, his reaction tells me all. Isn’t it cute when they turn red?”

Ema, who looked equally mortified, shuffled her way into the kitchen. Dad said, “I better stay with them. Just in case.”

He left Myron and Mickey alone in the den.

“I got your text,” Mickey said.

“I figured. Do you think you can help?”

“I do. I think Ema can help too.”

“How?”

“We have a plan,” Mickey said.

Chapter 22

The press was gone from Nancy Moore’s house.

Myron didn’t know if that came from a media decision to respect the family’s request for privacy or from news cycles being so short or from the fact that there was no new kindling for the coverage fire. Probably a combination of all three, but either way, Myron was grateful. It was eight P.M. when he pulled into the driveway and knocked on the door.

Nancy Moore opened the door with a glass of white wine in her hand. “It’s late,” she said.

“Sorry,” Myron said. “I would have called.”

“It’s been a long day.”

“I know.”

“I wouldn’t have even opened the door except . . .”

He knew. She still felt obligated. “Look, I need to talk to you for just a few moments.” Myron looked past her into the house. “Is Hunter here?”