“Okay.” She took a deep breath. “Okay. But insurance should cover it, right?”

“Yeah, sure. Vandalism is usually covered by the builder’s risk insurance.”

Was it her imagination, or did he sound a little glib as he said this? No, of course the insurance would cover it. These things happened. Or did they? Well, they were certainly happening to her. Maja’s mind went around in circles. She had to get out of the house. “Excuse me,” she muttered to John, and walked out through what used to be a custom-made sliding glass door and onto the deck.

The view was still gorgeous. She squinted and the trash dotting the lawn disappeared. It was sunny, and the river, full of spring runoff, reflected the light, its surface a shifting mirror of trees and sky. She wasn’t wrong—it was hard to be unhappy surrounded by this beauty. She took a deep breath. Putting the house back together was going to be difficult, but she could do it. She had to do it.

The sound of car wheels brought her back to the present. A police car was rolling up the drive. It pulled to a stop in front of her, and two men got out, one in standard blues and the other in a button-down shirt and tie. The uniformed officer had a thick mustache and mirrored shades and looked like a character from a seventies cop show or like he was about to rip his shirt off and start stripping. Surprise! This is all just a hoax, like an elaborate bachelorette party.

The patrol officer looked her up and down, and Maja felt very aware of her high-heeled boots and short dress. She had dressed for work at the gallery, her all-black ensemble as much a uniform for her downtown job as his badge and blue suit. But now she felt self-conscious, and she tugged her skirt down as if he was a high school principal who was about to call her mother to pick her up. As she did, the stiletto heel of her boot slipped between the boards of the deck and stuck there. Keeping a smile pasted on her face, she tried to wiggle it free without anyone noticing.

The man in the tie glanced at the notebook in his hand and then back at her. “Maja Jensen?” he asked. He pronounced her name like Ma-jah.

“It’s actually pronounced My-ah. It’s Polish.” She’d corrected hundreds of people over the years, and she always tried to put people at ease about getting it wrong. She liked having a unique name. She used to explain to people that Maja meant “good mother,” and add a little joke that her mother was clearly pleased with herself when Maja was born. But lately she’d been skipping that part.