A faint wail came from I didn’t know where. Was it from upstairs or the basement? Was it in the walls? Had it been going on the whole time we’d been sitting there?

Anna must have sensed me listening because she said, “That’s Sophie.”

“Is she all right?”

Avoiding my eyes, Anna spoke directly to my neck. “Of course she’s all right. She wants to go the playground before it gets dark out.”

The wailing unnerved me.

Anna said with a creepy Stepford smile: “Look, I hope you all don’t think I’m being difficult.”

Abigail: “Oh, my word, no. Never.”

Yes! You’re being impossible!

Pamela: “You want it to be perfect, that’s all.”

Abigail: “We do, too. We do, too.”

I asked the ladies to leave us alone for a moment. With them out of the room, I told Anna to look at me. When she resisted, I took her by the wrist and squeezed hard, saying, “Goddammit, Anna, look at me.”

When she finally did, Sophie’s wail from upstairs eerily started up again, this time louder, more insistent. So shrill, in fact, that I thought it might very well shatter glass.

“Now,” I said, “listen good—”

Five minutes later, I found Abigail Hosford and Pamela Wyeth-Bacon standing nervously in Philip Ashworth’s library.

“Mrs. Ashworth agrees to the copy as written. She looks forward to being a part of the house tour. And she apologizes for any inconvenience she may have caused. Now, ladies, if you’ll excuse me.” And I left the house.

There was so much I had wanted to say to Anna Brody. With all the real problems that real people are facing in the world, it was hard to care about the description of her house. So I told her to stop behaving like a child. I told her to get over herself fast. I told her to stop crying, and when she said, “I can’t,” then I told her to cry softer. I told her to get off her privileged ass and take her little girl to the playground.

Finally, when I was done, she asked me to wait a moment, but I said, “No, I’m afraid I’m already late for a date with my husband.”

Of course I wasn’t late at all. Tim was. Half an hour late, and by then the Heights Café was packed and I was finishing my vodka tonic. I had already asked for the check when Tim rushed in. He looked at me with a puppy-dog expression. He was the embodiment of an apology. But I was in no mood for excuses. It had been over a week since my work had ended and Bruno had collapsed. It had been the worst week of a very trying year. Tim had suggested we go out, just the two of us, like old times.