As she knocked on the door one more time, she realized she might have tried to stick around to see how nervous that woman at the lake really was. She’d been laughing, sure, but there’d been something sinister about that man. Leda could be in a similarly volatile situation somewhere. Leda could be tethered to some jerk in the middle of the woods, and Sarah would not want a stranger to simply look the other way. She thought of one of the support group members. Still grief-stricken after a decade, the woman talked exclusively about her daughter, who’d been trying to get to the next level of whatever godforsaken course she was taking when the daughter had become gravely ill. Evidently she’d asked for medical attention and someone had read her the Vedas.

Just as she was about to suggest to Matthew that they walk into town and find any form of distraction, Arman opened the door and let them in. They followed him toward the living room. The air was stale. Kiki was on the floor with Sylvie, who was sitting up and smiling and waving her hands, happy to see them.

“I’m sorry,” Sarah rushed to say, her voice suddenly choked with tears upon seeing Sylvie smile. “I’m sorry for being such a pill.”

“It’s no big deal.” Arman shrugged, which, at least for now, was all the reassurance she needed.

“I mean—” Sarah stammered, “what even happened back there? Those mosquitoes really put me over the edge.” She found herself searching their faces, wanting more than ever to connect.

“What happened?” Kiki repeated, with her eyes fixed on Sylvie, reaching for her fingers and making her giggle. “You were irritable. We can take it.”

“How about a drink?” said Arman.

Everyone nodded.

He headed into the kitchen, and as Sarah watched him go, she wondered whom he’d been speaking to in his car in the middle of the night. She impulsively took Matthew’s hand. Sometimes the urge to show him affection came on so strongly; she was always slightly surprised. If he had walked away before she could grab his hand, she would have followed her husband—the same husband toward whom she’d recently felt such anger, even hatred—across the room to touch him. They stood looking down at Kiki and Sylvie, who were passing a stuffed mouse back and forth.

“Sit down,” said Kiki. “Now you’re making me nervous.”

“Sorry,” Sarah said. She and Matthew sat down on the couch. “I’m sorry.”

Kiki shrugged before pulling Sylvie onto her lap as she leaned against the base of a leather club chair.