I will my feet to step closer, but they refuse. I don’t think I can ever go inside that house again. I cannot relive that last morning. I cannot stand in there now, on those carefully polished floors, without thinking how every step I ever took in that house, in that life, was at least in part a lie.

“I’m good,” I say. I point next door. “I think I’ll just pop over and visit with Eric and Damien. You can get me when you’re finished. Yeah?”

“You sure?” She looks a little uncertain, but aside from the realization that going inside that house will only serve to retraumatize me, I see an opportunity I can’t pass up. Eric and Damien are the town’s biggest gossips. If there is anything to know about my mom and Moony, about the baby in the picture and maybe even my tarot deck, they would be the ones to know it. I wonder if they also knew about Moony’s gambling—if anyone did.

“I can’t,” I tell her truthfully. “I thought I could, but I can’t.”

She nods. “Okay. I’ll swing by when we’re all finished.”

“Everything okay out here?” Shelly is at the door, her glassy eyes darting between Mary and me.

“Fine,” my mother tells her. “Cat is just a little tired from the drive up. She’s going to rest next door. Let’s get started.”

The realtor nods and they both disappear behind Moony’s front door—only it’s not Moony’s anymore. I have to keep reminding myself of that.

I make my way across the lawn to Eric and Damien’s place. I knock twice and wait on the porch, praying somebody is home. Eric swings the door open and breaks into a ginormous smile. He’s in cutoffs and an unbuttoned shirt, with Deena tucked under one arm and a Swiffer Duster in the other. I can see I caught him off guard.

“Catbird!” he sings, a nickname he made up for me that only he understands.

“Hi. Can I come in?”

He looks out around me and spots my mother’s car.

“The house sold. We’re here to sign the contract. I just—I can’t go back in there, you know?”

“Oh my gosh, of course!” he says, pulling me into a one-arm hug. “Come in, come in.”

I feel a weight lift as the door closes behind us. I follow Eric to his kitchen, where he puts Deena down and gets out two mugs. “Tea? You look like you could stand to unwind. I’ve got a delicious lavender and green tea blend. Had to cut back on the coffee, you know. The caffeine was killing my blood pressure.”

I nod and take a seat at their dining table—a turquoise-and-white vintage set that Eric nicknamed Polly Esther. He nicknames everything.