Scarlett scooped Murray from the ground, where he had been scratching an ineffective paw at the door. As gestures went, this was like throwing a rock at the moon in an attempt to knock it out of orbit. It was nice to have Murray in that respect—only he had less control over his situation than she did over hers.

Scarlett called out for Mrs. Amberson, just in case she was ensconced in her bedroom and maybe about to emerge half-undressed. There was total silence.

“I think she’s out,” Scarlett said, gripping Murray tight. She mustered the courage to look at Eric now. Maybe he would just leave. That would make sense, since the apartment’s occupant wasn’t there. But he didn’t. He walked right inside, making appreciative noises as he took in the airy living room with its white furniture, and straight to the windows that looked out over the park.

“Don’t these kinds of apartments cost, like, millions?” he said.

There was something in his manner that made Scarlett feel like it was somehow her fault that Mrs. Amberson lived in a very nice apartment, and that she had to make excuses for it.

“It’s actually her friend’s,” Scarlett said. “She’s subletting it for cheap.”

“When you say cheap, you probably don’t mean the kind of cheap I go for. Because I go for cheap. Where I come from, a car on the lawn is considered landscaping.”

He wandered past the desk, pausing to look at the photo array, which now included five pictures of Chelsea. He lingered on the photograph he was in for just a moment, then sat on one of the silver bar stools and swiveled. He slipped into one of those slow smiles of his—the ones that said, “I’m so irresistible and harmless.”

Scarlett sat down on the sofa, holding a quivering Murray firmly on her lap. She told herself that if she could just calm Murray, she would be calm. But Murray would never be calm. He was an exposed, throbbing nerve, set loose into the world in the form of a dog.

“Things getting back to normal at home?” Eric asked.

“We don’t really know what that means,” she replied.

This resulted in an even slower, more dangerously charming smile. Murray vibrated like a cell phone in a box, impossible to ignore.

“Spencer still complaining about that day with the sock?” he asked.

“Yeah,” she said, unable to keep herself from smiling—a queasy, wracked smile that hurt her face from the inside. “He’s mentioned it once or twice. A day.”

“God, I’ve never seen him so mad. Well, actually, I have, but…”

He laughed a quick, terse laugh and looked down. Of course he had seen Spencer angrier. Like right before Spencer’s fist “accidentally” hit his face. Because of Scarlett.