years. She had haggled over prices, P&S agreements, split hairs, gone back and forth with buyers and sellers. She was used to talking turkey about price. But with Lucius Malenko, she always felt as if her will were extinguished. “And if they agree … you know, go all the way, then …”

“You’ll get your finder’s fee, Sheila.”

“That’s great, thanks.” Sheila felt a cool rush of relief. He had promised her five percent commission. Five percent didn’t sound like much, but it would help. Harry had been a top electrical engineer, but clueless when it came to financial planning, leaving her only a pittance in death benefits. Given the considerable debt they had gotten into with Lucinda’s enhancement and the weakening real estate market, Sheila was in dire financial straits. So when she had approached Dr. Malenko about Rachel Whitman, he had agreed that if things worked, she would get a commission—a finder’s fee. She only wished there were something in writing. But this was not that kind of contract.

While they continued to talk, Sheila heard something from down below. A kind of muffled whirring sound. It was hard to determine because Lucinda’s CD player was blasting a sound track from 101 Dalmatians. Like all large old houses, this had several different sounds—the hot-water heater, refrigerator, the dishwasher, the washing machine and drier, the water rushing in the pipes, the air-conditioning system—so she wasn’t able to determine what she was hearing under the music.

“By the way,” Sheila said, “I think the husband, Martin, is very interested.”

“So it seems,” Malenko said.

The blender, Sheila thought. Lucinda was using the blender. She liked to make milk shakes with ice cream, milk, and fruit, and Sheila had bought a quart of strawberries yesterday for that purpose. And although Lucinda was only seven, Sheila had shown her how to use the device safely. Besides, the blades could only be activated with the top fastened.

“I will contact Vanessa and get back to you,” Malenko said. “Then we’ll talk about a visit. The sooner the better.”

“Yes, of course,” Sheila said.

“And, once again, you will say nothing until you hear from me.”

“Absolutely.”

Malenko hung up, and Sheila put the phone down, her heart still racing. She had blabbed and felt stupid, and Malenko all but said that. If he wanted to, he could cut her off immediately.

From below, the music was now resonating throughout the house. She didn’t know if the kitchen windows were open, but Sheila’s first concern was not the neighbors but Lucinda’s ears. She could permanently damage her hearing.

Sheila opened the door of her office and headed down. “Lucinda,” she called out. “Is everything okay?”

But the music drowned her out.

“Lucinda?” Sheila rounded the second-floor landing. When she reached the stairs, the music suddenly stopped dead, and a gaping silence filled the house, the only sound being Sheila’s shoes as she came down the stairs.

Before she got to the bottom, she heard Lucinda cry out from the kitchen: “Mommy, Mommy.”

Sheila’s heart nearly stopped. “What is it?” she cried, as she hustled down the hall to the kitchen.

“Mittens ran away.”

“What?”

“I went outside and couldn’t find her,” Lucinda said, grabbing her mother’s hand and pulling her to the back door.

“How did she get out?”

As she opened it, Sheila noticed her hand. There were thin scratches just above the wrist.

“Your hand is bleeding. What happened?”

Through gulping sobs Lucinda said, “I was unloading the dishwasher to get Mittens’ dish when I scratched it on a stupid fork. Then her face hardened. “It’s your fault. You know you’re not supposed to put the forks tines-up but tines-down. You know that, MOMMY.”

“I’m sorry, honey,” Sheila mumbled.

“I had the back door closed, but when Joe the mailman threw in the mail, he left it open and she got out.” Her face crumbled. “He’s a stupid old man, Mommy. I hate him.” And she ran outside.

Sheila followed her, a low-grade humming filling her head. Before she stepped outside, she looked back in the kitchen. She was right: On the counter sat half a bowl of strawberries, and the blender containing the bright red drink. The smell of strawberries laced the air. Everything looked normal—except for the empty cat basket.

“Here, Mittens. Here, Mittens,” Lucinda cried, running across the backyard and making kissing sounds. “Come home, please. Mittens, come home.”

Sheila felt oddly distracted as she watched her daughter go through the motions of finding her kitten. “Did you see which way she ran?”

“Yes, this way. I think she was chasing after a bird.”

“Well, I’m sure she’ll come home.”

Lucinda dragged Sheila into the woods, and they looked and called for the kitten. But after several minutes, Lucinda tired of the search and headed back to the backyard and flopped down on her swing. She stuck her lower lip out. “She’s never going to come home.”

Sheila squatted down beside her. She had splashed some berry juice on her T-shirt. “Yes she will,” Sheila said. “She’s probably out there under a bush watching us right now. She’ll be back.”

But something told her that was not so.

Lucinda looked up at Sheila, her eyes like marbles and her face set the way it got when she was reading Sheila’s manner. Suddenly she broke into a smile and spread her arms. “I love you, Mommy.”

Sheila embraced her. “I love you, too.”

Lucinda then got up and took her mother’s hand and headed back to the house. “You know, I miss her already,” she said, and licked the back of her other hand. “She was such a nice kitty.”

“But she may still come back.”

“I know, but if she doesn’t can we get another one?”

“Sure.”

“And without claws?”

35

Julian’s just finishing up at school, but I think I can get us a visit.” Sheila once sold a house to the Bloomfield Prep admissions officer. “This way, you can see him in action.”

It was Friday afternoon, and Rachel had picked up Sheila for a three o’clock meeting with Vanessa Watts who lived up the coast a few miles. As they drove along, Rachel kept asking herself why she was doing this when her instincts told her it made no sense, that there were too many unknowns. But she had promised herself to remain open-minded.

The Wattses’ house sat atop a rolling green lawn that looked like a green broadloom carpet. It was a white clapboard-sided Colonial of understated elegance, surrounded by mature foliage that made the place look as if it had naturally grown out of the ground decades ago. Even the row of pine trees along the drive looked just the right size and had been planted in just the right place. Along the front was a low dry stone wall and tidy beds of flowers and decorative grasses. The place bespoke a world that was perfect and good.

Vanessa greeted them at the door. In her forties, she was a tall woman with short golden hair, no makeup and a mobile toothy mouth. She was dressed in chinos, a green golf shirt with the collar up, and white running shoes. She looked very Cambridgey. According to Sheila, she was a professor of English at Middlesex University, and her book on George Orwell was apparently getting considerable attention.

She led them into the living room, a large cheerful space furnished in white—stuffed chairs, sofa, and wall- to-wall carpeting. The carpeting made Rachel conscious of her shoes. It was hard to believe people lived in the house, especially two teenagers. The only colors breaking up the antiseptic effect were two paintings and a shiny

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