“Yes, let’s figure this all out together.” Minerva’s arms rest on the table as if she’s waiting for a Sunday roast. Has she seen the state of the house? Does she really think this is a safe environment for a child?

Frank lumbers toward the sofa and pushes hard at his wife’s shoulder. On the second attempt, she sits up, rubbing her eyes. Immediately she grabs Buster and he awakens, his face reddening, his arms sticking out straight, but he doesn’t cry.

“The fuck are you two?” Evelyn looks from my face to Minerva’s. “Who’s this?”

“They’re Family Services,” Frank says, handing her a baggy pair of track pants he’s found on the floor. “Put those on, and don’t say shit.”

Deep inside my stomach, I feel the grit of pitted stone, the same gnawing that hits me every time I meet liars with a brand-new child.

Frank’s sweating harder now, round circles visible in the armpits of his T-shirt. While Evelyn struggles to put on the pants without letting go of her son, Buster dips and flails.

“Mrs. Floyd, good morning.” Minerva half rises from her seat at the table, holding out a Family Services card that wavers pointlessly in the gap. “Do you remember me? I’m Minerva Cummins, and this is Alex Van Ness.”

Evelyn doesn’t look at either of us.

“We’ve had a report we need to follow up on.”

“About what?” Evelyn sits, shifting Buster, who raises one little hand to hold on to the strap of her shirt.

Frank and I also take a seat at the table, and the four of us face each other like opponents in a quiz show, Family Services versus the Floyds. Buster starts to wriggle.

“He needs a diaper change,” I say quietly. “That one looks full.”

“I’ll get to it,” Evelyn replies. “What do you want?”

Buster makes strange little just-awake noises, a snuffling, more animal than infant. It’s all I can do not to reach across and take him to my chest.

“We had a phone call,” Minerva says.

“Who from?”

“It was anonymous. A woman called to say that you left little Buster unattended in a vehicle outside a public building.”

Evelyn reaches back to the kitchen counter for a packet of cigarettes, tipping sideways on her chair so that the soft curve of Buster’s forehead becomes visible. That beautiful skin, olive and smooth. Evelyn pulls out a cigarette from the pack and lights it, jiggling the little boy in her lap as she smokes. She’s bitten every fingernail she has, just like Ruth used to. I’m flooded again by all the lies, all the nervous little tremors and tics. They’re universal among people hiding things.

“What do you mean unattended? What public building?”