I’m tempted to do the same. It’s weird. I don’t care when a writer kills a human character—unless it’s a character I really like, such as Beth in Little Women. I still hate Louisa May Alcott for killing Beth off when there was no real reason to do it. But if an animal dies, like Old Yeller, that’s it for me. I’ll never read another one of that writer’s books.

After a while, the SUV parks under the tree house. If only the man would get out and we could see him. If only the woman would arrive without the hat and sunglasses. I really want to know what they look like.

Usually the gray car and the SUV arrive around the same time. This time at least five minutes go by before the gray car pulls up behind the SUV.

Is this important? Maybe. I write it down in a notebook, which also contains my reading notes. I take a picture, too.

The mystery woman gets out and slams her door, also unusual enough to make a note of. Today she’s wearing her hat and sunglasses, but she’s got on a cute sundress with little blue flowers printed all over it. I’ve never seen her so dressed up. Maybe this is a special occasion and she wants to look really good.

I take a couple of pictures before she gets into the SUV and closes its door with another bang. They don’t leave right away. Pretty soon, their voices rise. We can’t hear the words, but they’re definitely arguing.

“Uh-oh,” Skylar mutters. “Sounds like a fight.”

I never understand half of what goes on between Mom and Greg when they’re cross with each other—funny looks sometimes, silences other times. It’s like they argue in a code I can’t crack. But the mystery couple doesn’t bother hiding their anger.

Skylar and I lean out of the tree house and listen. The car windows are closed, so we can’t hear what they’re fighting about.

“Maybe he’s mad at her for being late,” I say.

Skylar shakes her head. “It’s more than that.”

“Maybe one of their assassinations went wrong and their controller is sending them back to Russia,” I say. “He wants to go, she doesn’t.”

“Maybe you should write a spy novel,” Skylar says. “You’re really good at making up stuff.”

“What do you mean?”

“Come on, Abbi, they’re not spies. That’s kid stuff. They’re cheaters, sneaking around on the people they’re married to. Like my dad and the woman he ran off with.”

“Come on, Skylar,” I say. “Not everybody’s like your dad.”

She gives me a look that clearly says I don’t know what goes on in parked cars. “Face it, Abbi, it makes a lot more sense than imagining they’re spies.”