“Well, like I mentioned, my editor read a draft.”

“Yes.”

“He wants to know if I can see where you manufacture the solution. It’s in Arcade, right? He thinks it would be good to have more details about exactly what’s in it, you know, and how it’s made.”

Dr. Kriss sighed impatiently and said, “I’ve told you a dozen times, I’d love to just open everything up for you, but it’s impossible. Rubicon will never allow it. The solution is private property, it’s that simple.”

“I’m not asking to publish the contents of the solution, I’m only asking—”

“You’re only asking for access I can’t give you, so I guess we’re at a stalemate, aren’t we? You won’t publish without information it’s impossible to provide. Honestly, Whitney, I thought we’d be done with this weeks ago. What’s stopping me from taking the story to USA Today? They’ve been hounding me, I keep putting them off—”

“What is stopping you, Dr. Kriss?”

She paused. “Is there something you want to say?”

It was satisfying to see the ants finally dismantle the head, how it was borne along the line, held aloft.

“Eva,” I said, “where’s Floella? Where’s Jules?”

The doctor ended the call.

4.

Sunshine Ray’s number went to an automated message telling me it was no longer in service, so I drove to his house on Snowy Egret Place. There were cars parked everywhere in his neighborhood, but all the homes seemed reticent, withdrawn, as if people were hiding inside. I’d flipped through the Retreat Examiner over lunch and read an article about the booming property values. I supposed this was a city getting richer by the minute: silence, distance, vultures turning in the sky.

A FOR SALE sign was nailed into Ray’s yard. I walked around the manicured lawn and tried peering between curtains, but everything was dark. The sign listed the number of a real estate agent named Mixy Munzenrieder. I called and told her I was passing through on my way to Tampa but had a few minutes and would love to take a look at the property.

I waited in the Focus until she arrived. The agent emerged from a Mazda, incredibly tall in high heels that caused her to walk as if descending stairs. She wore pink lipstick and had her hair dyed a brown that shaded into orange, nearly matching her tan. I think Mixy was younger than me, but her look seemed influenced by Florida retirees and their jewelers.

“You’ve got a great eye,” she told me, unlocking the front door. “This is one of my absolute favorites, a classic example of late-modern Retreat architecture.”

The house was empty and clean. As Mixy gave me the tour, I recognized settings from the tapes: the backyard where the dogs had played, the kitchen where Romeo fed them bones. Every surface had been scrubbed, the carpets had been vacuumed to the walls, and someone had plugged air fresheners into the outlets, the air sweet with synthetic vanilla.