In the leafy crescents of Lathrup Village, Caitlyn pulled into the drive of a tidy little one-story house. Spencer continued past, noting the address. He just had time to make out that she was still talking. And something told him it was all about her work.

Caitlyn Dunn, he had to admit, was conscientious. And uncompromising, like Marielle had been. Abby needed people like that in her life.

Seven o’clock. Chris dropped a basket of uncooked fries into a pot of boiling oil. As it sizzled loudly, the thought struck him how such a thing, hurled well, could be an effective weapon. He glanced through the smoke toward the couch, only to find himself locking eyes with the Yo-Yo. The center of the couch afforded the best view not only of the TV but also of the kitchen area, front door, and part of the fire escape balcony, although not the fire escape stairs. His eyes wore a TV glaze but would flick toward the source of any sound or movement. When they did, the glaze was gone.

“Shouldn’t be long!” said Chris quickly. He said it with the dumb enthusiasm of his “character”: the man he had gradually but convincingly become over the last few days.

He called out for Abby to come and open the fire escape door before the steaks sent the smoke detector loco. Abby did as she was told but clumsily, causing the door to hit the railing with a clang that must have reverberated up the fire escape.

In the bathroom, Spencer snipped a lock of his hair, folded it in a letter and stuffed both in his pocket. He came out of the bathroom and yelled down the hallway as he crossed to Abby’s room.

“Abby, stop taking the bathroom towel into your room.”

Abby answered without taking her eyes off the steaks sizzling in the skillet. She really wasn’t hungry. “Sorry, Dad.”

In Abby’s bedroom, Spencer snatched her bag from the closet. He rummaged inside. The money from the gas station register was hidden under her stuff. His eyes met President Jackson’s disapproving frown.

You’re not mine anymore, Andrew.

Before he zipped up, he did a quick 360. Something wasn’t right. Then he realized. The framed photograph of the three of them in Termessos. It was lying facedown. Surely Abby would want that? Spencer grabbed it and saw that it was now an empty frame. She’d packed light, just like he’d asked. He dropped the bag out of her window into the boxwood that lined the parking lot.

He had a sense he’d been in her room too long already. The Yo-Yo was like an automaton programmed to zero in on any aberration from the norm. Spencer grabbed a towel off Abby’s bed and nearly walked straight into him.

“What the fuck is going on, Spencer?”

“I, what do you mean?”

“Why’s there a fuckin’ party going on?”