Amos walked at a leisurely pace, still sort of hoping the pimp would track him down and make an appearance. An hour and a half later his hand terminal told him he’d reached his destination. The house didn’t look like much. Just a small one-level that from the street was an almost exact copy of every other small single-story house in the neighborhood. A tiny garden filled the narrow space between the house and the sidewalk. It looked lovingly tended, though Amos couldn’t remember Lydia ever owning a plant.

He walked up the narrow path through the garden to the front door and rang the bell. A small, elderly man with a fringe of white hair opened a moment later. “Can I help you, son?”

Amos smiled, and something in his expression made the man take a nervous half step back. “Hi, I’m an old friend of Lydia Maalouf. I just found out she’d passed, and I was hoping to pay my respects.” He worked his face for a minute, trying to find a version of his smile that didn’t scare little old men.

The old man – Charles, the obituary had said – shrugged after a minute and gestured for Amos to come into the house. On the inside it was recognizably Lydia’s space. The plush furnishings and brightly colored wall hangings and curtains reminded Amos of the apartment she’d had back in Baltimore. Pictures lined the shelves and tabletops. Snapshots of the life she’d had after Amos left. Two dogs in a field of grass, grinning and lolling their tongues at the camera. Charles, more hair on his head, but still silvery white, digging in the garden. Lydia and Charles together in a restaurant, candles on the table, smiling over their wineglasses.

It looked like a good life, and Amos felt something in his belly relax when he saw them. He wasn’t sure what that meant, but it was probably a good thing.

“You got a name?” Charles said. “Want some tea? Was making some when you rang.”

“Sure, I’d take some tea,” Amos said, ignoring the first question. He stayed in the cozy living room while Charles banged around in the kitchen.

“It’s been a couple months since the funeral,” Charles said. “Were you up the well?”

“Yeah, working in the Belt most recently. Sorry it took a while to make it back down.”

Charles came back out of the kitchen and handed him a steaming mug. From the flavor, it was green tea, unsweetened.

“Timothy, right?” Charles said, as if he were asking about the weather. Amos felt his jaw clench. Adrenaline dumped into his bloodstream.

“Not for a long time now,” he replied.

“She talked about your mom, some,” Charles said. He seemed relaxed. Like he knew whatever was going to happen was inevitable.

“My mom?”

“Lydia took care of you after your mom died, right?”

“Yeah,” Amos said. “She did.”