He rang the doorbell: no answer. Gingerly he tried the knob, which gave way immediately. He could just sneak inside and leave the flowers in the kitchen. From inside the house he could hear strains of the Hamilton soundtrack: “The Room Where It Happens.” He closed the door again—the house wasn’t empty. He rang the doorbell again.

Back when his star was on the rise he and Cassie had second-row seats to Hamilton; he loved that song.

A girl opened the door. She had a purple streak in her hair and green gum in her mouth. She was wearing a T-shirt that depicted an ear of corn and said I Know It’s Corny But You Are AMAIZEing. She tilted her head at Anthony and said, “Are you a robber?”

“No,” Anthony said. “No, I’m not a robber. I come in peace. I’m a friend of your mom’s. You must be Maggie.” Joy’s genes had to be pretty strong, the Navy SEALs of genes, because her daughter was basically a carbon copy of her.

The girl looked at him quizzically.

“Hold up,” she said. From the pocket of her jean shorts she produced an iPhone. Without asking, she took his photo. “I’m just texting your picture to my mom,” she said. She waited, then her phone dinged. “Okay,” she said. “She verified that you’re not a robber. Come in, so Pickles doesn’t run out the door.” Anthony hadn’t noticed that Pickles had appeared, panting and smiling. He entered the cottage and held out his hand. Pickles licked it. Apparently this was their new routine. If so, he could dig it.

“We’re acquainted,” he told Maggie. Pickles moved her head—was the dog nodding?

Anthony shook the flowers a little bit and held them out to Maggie. “These are for your mom.”

Maggie considered him, then took the flowers and placed them on the counter, then jumped so she was sitting on the counter. It was a look that wasn’t quite a scowl but it wasn’t quite a smile either—it lived somewhere in between, in the netherworld of human expression.

His editor would strike that last sentence. Chronic bestsellers were carried on the back of snappy dialogue and plot. Just ask Leonard Puckett. Write like you have a knife to your throat, Leonard Puckett was fond of saying.

Don’t be silly, Anthony. You don’t have an editor anymore.

“Did she say anything else?” he asked. “Your mom?”

Maggie studied Anthony and blew a green bubble. He thought it was going to pop all over her face but she had a nifty trick, allowing it to deflate quietly so she could suck it back into her mouth and begin the whole process over again. “Nope,” she said. “She didn’t.”

She watched Anthony implacably.

“Nothing at all?” He felt a little part of him begin to wither and wilt.

“She was busy, at work.”

Joy’s soft hair, Joy’s collarbone. The rest of it—oh, the rest of it! The things he’d done, the things he still wanted to do.