“It’s real.” Suzanne filled him in on her research: Black mold could be deadly. Black mold caused asthma and pulmonary bleeding. Black mold caused permanent cognitive damage. Black mold destroyed houses. It was so invasive, so pervasive, that bleach solutions didn’t kill it, nor did removing drywall. One family in New Orleans she’d read about moved back home after the waters from Hurricane Katrina had receded, only to come down with unexplained respiratory symptoms that left them barely able to breathe. The cause?

“Let me guess,” Grant said.

“Explain our new roof. Why would someone put a new roof on a house just before they sold it if there were no water issues?”

“Old roof . . . ?”

“Explain the brown stains on the dining room ceiling.”

Toxic black mold arose from hidden leaks. Its spores lurked behind the drywall. There was only one way to find out if their house had fallen prey to the scourge: look behind the walls. But how?

And so Suzanne put in a call to Nick Cox, who came over dressed from head to toe in protective gear, a crowbar in his hand.

TED SAT ON THE CURB ACROSS THE STREET FROM THE DAVENPORT-GARDNERS’, his hands jammed into the pockets of his down jacket, his legs splayed in the blocked-off road. He watched Nick’s yellow bulldozer standing at the ready, engine running, gnashing its teeth, ready to tear the boards off Grant and Suzanne’s house at Nick’s command. The bulldozer wasn’t much bigger than the Coxes’ SUV. A Volvo, oddly enough, just like his and Allison’s wagon.

Jillian sat beside Ted, more engaged than he’d seen her since her Disney princess phase. “Wow,” she said between bites of bagel and smoked salmon from their abandoned New Year’s brunch. Ted had run out of the house empty-handed after seeing the bulldozer roll down the street. His stomach was growling, but he didn’t want to leave for fear things would get worse in his absence. The bulldozer might have at the house, removing chunks, leaving it as airy as a hunk of Swiss cheese. They had been dragging out big hunks of drywall already, as if they were planning to hollow it out first. “Can I have a bite of your bagel?” he asked Jillian.

“A small one,” she said.

Ted took a nibble.

“Oh, Dad! You nearly ate the whole thing!” She wrenched back the bagel and walked away.

A sound like a jackhammer came from within the house. White clouds puffed through the open windows, dust settling onto the grass.

Allison, sitting on Ted’s other side, held her camera up to take a picture, then lowered it without taking a shot, an action she’d repeated several times since they’d arrived. “It was the best example of a Sears house in Willard Park,” she eulogized.

“It’s still standing, Al,” Ted said.

“Not for much longer. Damn him!”