Bardem watches her. Then he nods, and his lips smile a little. He looks in the mirror and runs the palm of his hand over his jaw. His chin. He does not seem to notice the stitches at all. Ava’s insides knot. She wipes her eyes. Don’t cry.

“All things you choose to hold in your heart,” he says, “have the capacity for pain.” He looks at her, looks hard. “Be careful what you choose.”

Ava nods.

On the window, the butterfly lifts into the air and flaps away. Bright flutter, blue sky. Ava jumps down from the counter.

“I love you, my Ava,” Bardem says. “Always remember. I love you and nothing else.”

Ava goes to her bedroom and climbs into bed and pulls the covers up over her face. Tears leak down her cheeks, and she squeezes her eyes shut. Clenching her monkey. Don’t cry. Don’t cry. She hugs the monkey tight.

In a dream, Mom comes to Ava and sits on the bed and holds her hand. She leans forward and kisses Ava’s hair. Quiet of the night and starlight at the window, between the billowing drapes. Please don’t leave me.

In the morning, she is gone.

XII

Sometimes you block a thing that hurts. You lie to yourself and say it isn’t there, but the whole time you know it is. It’s like a piece of metal you’ve swallowed. It bothers you, but you’ve sort of gotten used to it. This thing inside you. You’ve been swallowing it for years.

They sat in the dark in the Caprice and looked at the house. The brick around the windows blackened from fire, and all the glass gone. Burnt porch. Wood rails twisted like charred matchsticks. Dead shrubs of hawthorn on either side. The front door propped open with a cinder block. A drift of snow blown in. Jack watched the windows for movement. Nothing. Cold and getting colder.

Jack inched the Caprice up the drive and around to the rear of the house. Old firewood lay stacked under the eave. It looked dry. He could see no tracks in the snow. Ancient trees of stripped oak to the west, and on the hillside, crops dead and flattened under clinging mounds of white. Big snowflakes floating down. Pale as bone in the moonlight. No other houses in any direction. No lights. Jack shut off the engine, and Matty tugged on his sleeve.

“What if somebody’s in there?”

“It’s abandoned. Nobody’s here.”

“The windows are black.”

“Yeah. I think there was a fire.”

“This house is scary.”

“No. It’s a good house.”

“Why can’t we go home?”

“I told you. We can’t anymore. It isn’t safe.”

“Could we go someplace else?”

“We have to try here. It’s gettin’ cold.”

Matty sat looking at the house.

“The fire was a long time ago,” Jack said.

“There could be another fire.”