On Thursday, Skylar and I ride our bikes back to Marie Drive. The gray car shows up right on schedule, and this time the SUV parks behind it. The woman gets into the SUV and they drive away together just like last week. I video everything, but we still can’t see their faces. The man doesn’t get out of his SUV, and the woman doesn’t take off her sunglasses or her hat.

“Let’s look in her car,” Skylar says. “Maybe we’ll see something that gives us a clue.”

I’m not sure this is a good idea. “What if they come back while we’re looking?”

“They just left, Abbi. They won’t be back for a couple of hours.” Skylar begins climbing down the tree.

I follow her. I know she’s probably right, but I keep thinking of scary movies where the bad guy leaves but then forgets something and comes right back.

Skylar goes straight to the car and peers into the passenger window, but I sort of creep up like it’s going to explode if I touch it.

On the back seat, there’s a yoga bag and a large book with the title A Guide to Abstract Expressionism. An empty water bottle sits in the driver’s cup holder. On the passenger seat is a pink hoodie from the Gap. Her car is so old it actually has a CD player. A few discs by jazz musicians are scattered on the seat.

I take pictures of everything. You can never tell what’s important.

We climb back up to the tree house and eat our lunch. “So have we learned any new stuff about the mystery woman?” Skylar asks.

“She takes yoga, she likes art and jazz,” I say, “and she buys clothes at the Gap. Like a good spy, she doesn’t give away anything personal.”

“Did you notice that one of the CDs was by a musician with a Russian name?”

I look at the picture I took of the CDs—one is called Meditation on a Theme. “Definitely Russian,” I say.

Skylar opens a bag of mini Oreos and takes a handful. “Here. Have some.”

A squirrel watches us eat. His bright eyes focus on the cookies. I toss him the half without icing. He holds it in his little paws and nibbles daintily. A couple of his pals scurry from branch to branch and climb headfirst down the tree trunk toward us. We toss crumbs to keep them happy.

A huge flock of black birds swirls past, not crows but starlings, changing direction, veering right, veering left, soaring up, sweeping down as if one brain controls all of them. A murmuration, my mother calls it. She claims it’s good luck to see one.