Julia makes a face. “I know why he’s there. I just hope Peter’s not being a jerk to him.” Peter is Mike’s son, a moody, quiet senior who prefers the company of computers to people.

“I’m sure Peter’s being good to him,” Iris says.

The four of them seem lost today, sitting in the den, looking at each other. “Are you sure you don’t need to see a doctor?” Iris says, pointing at Kyle’s face.

“Please let’s not make a production of this,” Kyle says. “We have enough to deal with today.”

So they retreat from one another. Julia doesn’t want to talk about it—at least with them—and she cuddles up on the couch with her mom. Iris puts on Julia’s favorite comfort movie, The Wizard of Oz (the high school did it for their musical last year, and Julia was an Emerald City resident), and they watch it together. Grant goes up to his room; Iris thinks he’s preoccupied. Or he’s having trouble processing this shock. She feels like Julia, having suffered the more direct trauma, needs her more right now. Kyle tries to get Grant to join him in the media room, to watch ESPN, but the boy’s curled up on his bed and politely declines.

The phone rings. A lot. Friends and neighbors calling, eager for information, some wanting gossip, others wanting to give comfort. The day bleeds away. Kyle looks in the mirror often, and Iris watches him.

She’s not sure she believes his story. But why would anyone punch her husband in the face?

Kyle doesn’t meet her gaze. He naps while they finish the movie. Julia tries texting Ned as the credits roll and gets a half-hearted answer, but now Julia’s full attention is on the phone, on Ned’s few words. Iris goes to the front window and watches the police officers go in and out of Danielle’s house.

Kyle has offered to cook dinner, which Iris both appreciates and resents. She could have used the meditative quiet of making something simple, and she wants to be the one to comfort her hurting family. She watches Kyle putter with pots and pans and jars: he’s making spaghetti with a meat sauce, salad, and garlic toast. He glances at her and takes out a wineglass, pouring her some of the Chianti he’s opened. It feels wrong to enjoy wine with Danielle dead, but they both could use a drink.