A silver Mercedes slowed down as it approached Mira and her bike, flashing its headlights at her in friendly warning. It turned into the driveway and parked snugly behind the Ford Taurus, as if the driveway had been constructed to accommodate those two cars exactly.

The back doors popped open and two little mocha-skinned girls, about seven years old, maybe twins, climbed out of the car. At the same time, the front door of the house opened, and the Indian woman in the silk blouse stepped out. The girls squealed “Mommy!” and ran into her arms. The white bull terrier woke up to bark a hearty welcome. Finally, the driver of the Mercedes emerged. He was a silver-bearded Sikh who looked like a surgeon or a psychiatrist, a specialist in any case who was senior enough to wear his turban to work. He locked the doors of his vehicle with a beep before strolling into the house. The pretty mother of the girls greeted him with a peck on the cheek.

Just before the front door of the house closed, Mira saw the man turn his head and throw her a suspicious glare. He had every right to do it. She was a total stranger standing on his sidewalk, staking out his family under the darkening sky. The curtains on all their windows pulled shut, one by one by one.

Rosemary slowed down when she hit the block where she supposed Arik lived. She didn’t know his exact address, except that he had mentioned two walking-distance landmarks: Sam’s Dry Cleaning, where his mother worked, and Dominic’s, the pizzeria where he often grabbed a slice.

The houses on his street were small, modest, Spanish-style bungalows painted in innocuous shades. In the twilight, she couldn’t make out if a house was orange or pink—he’d said his was a ghastly salmon. Everything blurred into one big gray area. She walked her bike past the houses, narrowing down what might have been Arik’s to about four or five, based on details he’d mentioned—disheveled camellia bush, dried-up lawn, his mother’s garish taste in curtains. Then it got too dark to see anything, and invisible dogs started growling and barking wherever she walked.

She got back on her bike and cycled home.

Rosemary and Mira hid in their rooms while the Korean realtor lady visited again. She’d been over for tea twice in the past week, talking like a foghorn, flashing her crimson nails. She wore short skirts and really high heels, and because of her flat, angular build, she looked to the girls like a man in drag. Her business card had become a fixture on their fridge, pinned under a Hello Kitty magnet: quellie soo, licensed realtor, tip top estates (east division).