Five counts of attempted murder. Ninety-one counts of murder. One disputed charge of murder, which the defense moved to have struck. Because we did not have Licia’s body. And for that reason, I thought, we had hope.

Elsa handed the paper back to me. Her hand brushed mine. Something passed between us: some understanding beyond the words.

The winter had not unmade us. We had grown strong, it seemed, each in our own way. No one dared use the word closure, but at breakfast that morning there was an expectant energy. My wife; my daughter; even tiny Franklin, as he pushed his Tripp Trapp chair to the head of the table, climbed into place, took a banana in his right hand, and squeezed till the sides split.

“Here, little friend,” I said. “Let me get that for you.”

I reached across, peeled the banana, handed it to my son.

“Bann,” said Franklin. “Banan.”

Anyone looking in through that window, I thought, would say we had it pretty good.

We stood outside the apartment building, the four of us.

Elsa laced her fingers into mine. She searched my eyes, smiling.

“What?” I said.

She drew away, looked at me again, smiled.

Vee stood on the tips of her toes, threw her arms around her mother’s neck.

Elsa put her bag down on the tarmac path, lifted Vee off her feet.

“Hey,” said Vee.

“Still my little girl,” said Elsa, laughing.

“Put me down.”

The bag on the path. Stiff-sided, gray, the strap a simple wide loop.

“New bag?” I said.

“Mum,” said Vee. “Mum, I mean it, put me down.”

Elsa lowered Vee to the path. She turned to face me. “New bag. Yes.”

The eye contact: So deliberate. Calculated, almost.

“Hope that’s okay,” said Elsa. Money was tight, she meant, though she wouldn’t say it in front of Vee.

I looked down, caught Vee looking at us. I looked at Elsa.

Elsa’s smile: It was good, but it wasn’t quite right. Her eyes flicked to a tree farther down the path, then flicked back to mine.

I said, “What would you call that color?”

“Battleship gray.”

“I like your new bag.” Unusual choice, I wanted to add. A Mom bag. Not really your style.

Elsa and Vee waited outside while I dropped Franklin at kindergarten. I handed him his lunch box and his water bottle, which he dropped into a large plastic crate.

“Hei, Franklin!”

Franklin stood on the threshold of the Red Room, looking in, unsteady. Then he ran to Leni, let himself be swept into the air, wriggled around in her arms so he was facing me, and smiled.

“Hey, Leni,” I said.

“Just wanted to say good luck,” she said.

I nodded. “Thanks. Good to know Franklin’s in safe hands.”

“Sure.” Her ponytail swished reassuringly as she carried him from the room.

On the way out I saw Tvist coming toward me, carrying Josi.

“Hello, Cal Curtis,” he said evenly.