As I near the house, tires crunch over gravel behind me; I wrench around and leap out of the way of a green Subaru station wagon in the nick of time. It pulls ahead of me, stopping before the carriage house that sits to the left of the main house, next to an ancient Toyota Corolla. A woman—midforties, average build, in a cream V-neck and cargo shorts—hops out of the driver’s seat, exhaling a cloud of vape smoke in my direction. She offers no apologies, but grunts in my direction.

“You gonna help me?”

The trunk is packed with an assortment of cloth grocery bags. I hup to, grabbing several with each hand.

I follow Suzanne—because she has to be Suzanne—around the back of the house to a door that leads straight into the kitchen. We surprise a boy who is sitting at the marble island, playing on his phone. I peg him for sixteen or so. Blond, with not-quite curls, outfitted in a retro band tee, jeans, and chunky black-frame glasses. An unassuming kind of cute.

“Let me help you with that!” He jumps off a barstool, raking eyes over me before turning away with a shy grin.

Suzanne shakes her head, then hauls her bags up onto the counter. I follow suit. “We got it all. She need anything?”

For a second, I think she means me, but the boy shakes his head.

“She’s DND for the next hour. Needs to finish this chapter.”

Do not disturb, I assume, rather than a Dungeons & Dragons campaign. Maura must be on deadline. But who is this kid?

“I’m Cecelia. Maura’s granddaughter,” I say, offering my hand. He takes it, grip firm. Good. First test passed. But then he starts singing. I let him finish, polite expression plastered on, as always. Release a belabored sigh. “You’re a bit young to be a Simon and Garfunkel fan. Usually it’s boomers who pull that with me. And what’s your name?”

“I’m Ben. No song for that, as far as I know.” His blue eyes sparkle.

“Not a lot of slut-shaming songs written about dudes, I guess.” I faux-shrug.

“Touché.” Ben laughs.

Suzanne watches us shrewdly. Then she clears her throat. Ben and I get to work, helping to unload the groceries.

I put a carton of orange juice in the fridge, the one place I am sure of in this kitchen. There are a million cabinets, and I have no clue what goes where. Then I wager a guess: “Are you Suzanne’s…son?”

“God, no,” Suzanne barks at the same time Ben says, “Uh, no,” like I’ve insulted him.

“I’m Maura’s intern,” he explains, like this is a normal thing.

“What does that mean?” I ask. I watch Suzanne put away a bag of chips, noting the location with interest.

“She’s teaching me about the publishing industry. And writing.”