DiMargio’s mouth tightened. “I’m trying to be helpful. So they can solve this damn thing.”

His wife stared at him. Stood and left for the third time, bustling straight up to the end of the hall. A door closed hard.

Bill DiMargio said, “Now she’ll sleep all day, that’s what she does, she sleeps it away. As usual, it’s my fault—you wanna hear about Frankie? I’ll tell you. Her problem was she always had to be different. I know, I know, that’s normal, everyone has to do their own thing. Plus she’s shy, afraid of people, life is hard, I get it, she needs to express herself. But let me tell you, shy doesn’t have to be a problem, lotsa people are shy, right? And they don’t get into trouble.”

Footsteps sounded. Bill DiMargio folded his arms across his chest. Clara returned, dressed in a black blouse and slacks, black sneakers. Sidling close to her husband, she slipped her hand into his.

He said, “You okay, hon?”

She sighed and turned to us. “May I tell you about our little Francesca? She was so, so, so shy. Just born that way.”

Bill DiMargio said, “Finally, something we can agree on.”

The history was one I’d heard hundreds of times. Quiet, somewhat withdrawn child, previously well behaved, finds a social niche among a loose band of fellow outcasts in junior high and everything changes: dress, taste in music, school performance, adventures with drugs.

“But nothing addictive,” said Clara DiMargio.

Her husband humphed. She withdrew her hand. “I’m not saying she was blameless. There was some drinking, some marijuana. But nothing serious and until then she’d never done anything even naughty. Just the opposite, she was our little Goody Two-shoes, refused to even taste mulled wine at Christmas.”

Bill DiMargio said, “If only that had lasted.”

“She did not have a drug problem,” said Clara.

“You say so.”

“I do. You know I’m right, Bill.”

“Probably,” he conceded. “Though there were times she looked like it was more than just wine and reefers.”

“Say what you want,” said his wife between clenched jaws. “She was never addicted to anything. Everyone told us that.”

I said, “Everyone meaning—”

“School counselors,” she said. “She tested with learning problems but never once, not ever, was there even the slightest suspicion of addiction to anything.” Glaring at her husband.

He muttered, “Must be true, they’re the experts.”

Clara said, “Which isn’t to say whatever she was doing was acceptable. Frankie’s grades suffered. She was never the greatest student but up until eighth grade she’d managed to pass everything. After the change, she began failing.”

“Once it started, banzai,” said Bill. Forming a wing with one hand, he dive-bombed sharply.