“You were listening to the whole thing, weren’t you?” He shakes his head in amazement. “You couldn’t help yourself. It’s not normal, you know, to seek out work when you’ve been told to relax at home.”

“I know. I’m sorry. It’s just that—”

“You care too much. That’s what it is. That’s good and everything, but I can’t have you disregarding my instructions. You’re lucky Minerva’s not here.”

“Sorry, Morris.”

“Go home. Take a breather. God knows we all need a little self-care.”

I pause at the security screen and turn.

“Yes, Alex,” he says, rolling his eyes, even though his tone is warm. “The family conference went well. Buster’s set for a court date, just like you wanted.”

“It’s not just me who wants—”

“Go home, or I’m firing you.”

“Okay. Okay, sorry. I’m leaving now.”

When I get back to the apartment, it’s empty. Chase must be at the hospital picking up Ruth. We’ll need to keep a steady vigil on her at home. I’m worried about my sister, about her fitness to be a new mom. Obviously it’s a bad sign that’s she’s fainting and bleeding from stress. She’s not coping, and the baby’s not even on the outside yet. It’s going to take a village to raise her child.

By the sink, I pour water into the coffeepot, relax into the quiet of the hour I have to myself. It’s rare to be in this apartment alone, and the silence feels restorative. But just as I’m unfolding a new filter, there’s a rap on the door. It’s lunchtime. Nobody ever knocks on the door. When I open it, a man is standing against the doorjamb, picking at his molar with a fingernail. He’s long and thin, his jeans baggy around his sneakers. He looks sallow, as if he hasn’t seen sunlight in a while, his blue eyes pale and cold, cropped hair more beige than blond.

“Oh, hi,” he says, smiling. “Is Ruth here?”

I pause, my mouth getting drier. Is this him? Eli Beck, woman beater, drug dealer, father-to-be? So he actually tracked her down. I underestimated him.

“Who are you looking for?” I say, looking him right in the eye, trying to hide that my heart is picking up pace.

“Ruth Van Ness,” he says. “Isn’t this where she lives?” He leans farther in the doorway, overly casual, but with the look of a hungry puppy, a runt, the one that never got fed.

“Sorry. I don’t know anyone by that name. Who are you?”

“You’re her sister.” He smiles. “You’re the clever one.”