“You know she came here often, don’t you?” he asks, taking my hand. I almost pull it away, but I let it sit there, feverish in his palm. “We had a deep friendship,” he continues, eyeing me carefully. “It probably—no, definitely—wasn’t normal. At least not on Viloxin. Younger men don’t have friendships with their brother’s wives. But it was always different between us. She gave me ideas for my work, and I tried to help her with hers. She thought we were cut from the same cloth. Creatives, you know, while your father was just always … always so regimented. Creative in his own way, but that was a creativity that only applied to his world, a world neither of us felt like we could fully penetrate. I was too young, and she was … she was Mireille.”

That same sour taste stains the back of my tongue. I’ve heard the explanation a million times—she was Mireille. As if that’s something I should nod at, understand. They mean: She was emotional; she was weird; she was different. She was ebullient; she was a drug; she was kind; she was invested. Every time it makes me want to shout, I didn’t get the time with her that you might have! I can only guess at what you mean! Seven years wasn’t enough to understand her. A lifetime wouldn’t be, I don’t think, because she was so skilled at hiding—and teasing—her darkest layers. That’s why she still fascinates people.

“I think your sister was right,” he says, unexpectedly. “I have a theory as to why I might be the vampyrrhic boy in White Fox. Do you want to hear it?” His lips are wet from the tea or his saliva. I’ve never looked at them before.

“Sure.” A boy who feeds on Mama’s blood. A boy who charms her in the night, constantly bringing to mind their similarities, only to shun her during the day. Only to feel angry that he was duped into drinking her blood. I feel creepy crawlies along my skin and set down my mug before sliding my hands under my legs for warmth. They rub up against a teddy bear’s pointed snout, so rough-smooth-rough to the touch.

“We had such a close friendship, but after what happened with Mitso Arakit, I became angry,” he explains, his skin slick and pink. “She was putting herself in harm’s way daily, by trying to connect with these troubled people. For a woman in her position to do that—it’s unhealthy. Can you blame me? She disagreed, of course. She thought attention around her had died down, that this one stalker was a fluke. That she was entitled to independence.