Eden’s mom: I know it’s normal … but I still have a lot of guilt.

Him: It’s no one’s fault.

Eden’s mom: I feel like I’m losing her.

Later, toward the end of their meal, the man reached for Eden’s mom’s hand and they held for a second, then she pulled her hand away. Marwan wasn’t great at reading lips, but he was pretty sure she said something like, “We can’t.”

Why not?

Can’t what?

And who was Nancy? He didn’t know anyone in school by that name, but maybe he had a daughter—or a deceased wife. Maybe they’d met in some grief counseling group?

When things slowed down, Marwan used his break to walk up to the corner bodega to buy a Gatorade; the owner, Salim, knew Marwan from frequent visits just like this one.

“Heard about the eggs,” Salim said.

“Yeah,” Marwan said.

“You have cameras?” Salim asked.

“No.”

“Get cameras.”

Marwan said, “Did the police ask you to pull footage from yours? The car came from this direction.”

Salim shook his head. “They did, but my camera only really covers the sidewalk. Did they check the traffic camera?”

“What traffic camera?”

“There’s one on the light out front. I got a ticket once.”

“Fascinating,” Marwan said. Then added, “I’ve got to go.”

Outside he looked up and saw a skinny white post extending from the metal arm holding the traffic light. At the end of the post was a small sphere that must be a camera. Had they even thought to check?

Eden’s mother and the man were on the sidewalk saying goodbye. The man reached for her hand again and held it and leaned into her, a quick forehead-to-forehead moment before she turned her head and shifted it to a normal hug. He had a wedding ring on.

Marwan went inside and to the register and checked the name on the credit card receipt for their table. The man had picked up the tab.

Marwan made a note of the name, Dan Rankin, then regretted it.

There were things in life you probably weren’t meant to know.

Ilanka

ILANKA

Practice had been long and boring, and her mother didn’t show except to pick her up on foot so they could ride the subway home together. It was a quick shot from midtown to their stop—the first one in Queens—and a short walk to the French restaurant where Ilanka didn’t like any of the food. Baked escargot. Creamy potatoes. Beef in red sauces. It was all trying too hard.

Her father was already at a table when they arrived, with a vodka in front of him. He kissed her mother first, then her. They ordered. Then her parents started to talk as if she weren’t there.