“You didn’t see anything, did you?” asked Mr. Gill. “Did the police talk to you?”

“No. I mean, they did, but I didn’t. Kelli heard something. She woke me up. She said she heard something breaking.”

“Yes,” said Mr. Gill. “It’s good to have alert neighbours, I can tell you that. Marilyn” — he inclined his head toward the house next door — “was on the phone to police before I was!”

“It’s a great neighbourhood,” I said. “Good people.”

“Very good,” said Mr. Gill. “You and Kelli will be missed. As your mother is missed.”

It was kind of him to include me in that list, I thought, even though I had only really met most of the neighbours yesterday. Mr. Gill had an understated courtliness to him — everything he said seemed to extend a certain generosity, seemed to be inquiring what he could do to make you more comfortable.

“Um,” I said, glancing down at the barbecue sauce in my hands. Mr. Gill watched me expectantly, probably assuming that any moment I’d explain why I had brought it with me. “Speaking of my mother,” I began. “You know that guy, yesterday? Trevor? The care worker? You thought he was my brother?”

“I’m so sorry for that mistake,” said Mr. Gill.

“No, no, no,” I said. “It’s no big deal. It’s just, I was wondering. What exactly gave you that impression?”

Mr. Gill began to flutter his Bambi-like eyelashes again, abashed. “It was entirely my misapprehension,” he said. “I saw him mowing the lawn from time to time. Working on the house —”

“Working on the house?” I repeated. Cleaning out the gutters?

“Yes. And the car —”

“The car?”

“And spending time with your sister, of course. I often saw them out for walks on the weekends.”

“On the weekends,” I repeated after a moment.

“I suppose your mother relied on him quite a bit,” said Mr. Gill.

I looked down at the barbecue sauce again. Mr. Gill did too.

“May I ask —” he began delicately.

“I think that’s right,” I said. “I think she did. Quite a bit. So you’re saying — based on all those things — you just assumed?”

Mr. Gill blushed. He opened his mouth and began to stammer. “My dear Miss Petrie,” he began.

“Karen,” I said.

“Karen, I don’t wish to — I’m not sure . . . Well, it’s awkward, rather.”

I watched him carefully. It was not, I realized, that he had just assumed.

It was that he had been told.

· · ·

So let’s say you are Irene Petrie and you are dying of cancer. Scratch that — you are not dying of cancer. You will be, but not yet. When you are, it will overtake you all of a sudden, in a very un-cancerlike fashion. More like a heart attack really, or a stroke. Pouncing on you not out of the blue, exactly, because it’s always been there — like a moody but up-till-now relatively docile cat. A cat who scratched and nipped every once in a while, but mostly slept. A cat who will later, out of nowhere, launch itself at you, spitting poison, spiky-furred and claws extended.