As we sat at my kitchen table, I felt a strong reserve from Miranda Casaubon, a proud distance that I rather admired, but which made conversation difficult. She could have been anywhere between twenty-five and thirty-five, was conservatively dressed with the exception of her high boots that laced up the front and tightly followed the line of her calves. I knew from Laney that she had “a good job” as a book designer for a major publisher, could afford the rent, and had insisted on Park Slope so her daughter could attend P.S. 321, the local elementary school. There was no father in the picture. Miranda told me that she had grown up in Jamaica and left with her family when she was thirteen. Her accent had been blunted, but she retained some of the musicality of Caribbean English. Her parents and her three sisters were now all living in Brooklyn. Miranda kept her hands on the table as we spoke, one laid over the other. They were slender with long fingers, and I noticed that there was no tension in them or in the rest of her body for that matter. She was still, relaxed, and alert.

If not for Eggy, I wouldn’t have discovered anything more. She had stayed silent after our greeting, and when we sat down she hugged her mother’s arm, buried her face in her shoulder, and then began a game with the back of the chair. She held it with one hand and leaned outward until she could go no farther and then pulled herself back again. After this gymnastic routine, she abruptly skipped away and began to dance around the room with her arms out, pale brown curls flying. She hopped over to the bookshelves and began to sing, “Books, bookers, books, and more bookerees! Book-a-book, book-a-book. I can read today.”

I turned to Miranda. “Can she read?”

Miranda smiled for the first time, and I saw her even white teeth, which protruded just slightly. The overbite sent a shudder through me and I looked away. “A little. She’s in kindergarten and is learning.”

Eggy leaned her head back, threw out her arms, and started to spin on the floor.

“You’re getting wild,” Miranda told her. “Calm down.”

“I like to be wild!” She grinned at us, and her wide mouth seemed to take up the whole bottom of her small face, for a moment giving her an elfin expression.

“I mean it,” Miranda said.

The little girl watched her mother, then spun again, but more slowly. After a short rebellious tap with her foot, she shook her curls and skipped over to me, eyeing her mother with a touch of resentment. She moved close to me and in a conspiratorial way said, “Do you want to hear something private?”

I looked at Miranda.

“Maybe Dr. Davidsen doesn’t want to hear it,” Miranda said.

“Erik,” I said.

Miranda glanced at me but said nothing.