Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

               ***August 4, 2025***
               9 a.m. Geneva, Switzerland

She loved her morning room.

She smiled at the tasteful chamber, with its French doors opening onto a late summer garden of sunflowers, gentians, asters, and early autumn Alpine crocuses, nestled in a border of silver birches and baby's breath. The room's walls featured pale blue and white striped wallpaper over white inset paneling with white crown molding; its interior was filled with satin-finished rosewood furniture: a compact workstation where her laptop and private papers were arranged, an antique secretary/glass-fronted cabinet full of Limoges china, and a round table with four chairs used for breakfast and luncheon. Flanking each side of the marble fireplace was her collection of books, arranged row by row in the built-in shelving.

She crossed to the table and pressed a button inset under the rosewood surface. Promptly, a young, blond woman in a trim black-and-white server's uniform entered, carrying a tea tray with a grapevine-design teapot and matching cups, saucers, and other china, as well as condiment bowls and food.

"Good morning, madame!" the girl said brightly.

"Good morning, Tinette," she replied, then motioned to the outdoors, the sheer curtains fully open to reveal the garden. "I'm hoping we may get cooler temperatures in the coming days."

"That would be quite nice, Madame Piaget," Tinette answered, setting down the teapot, then the saucers, the cups, the spoons, the sugar bowl and tongs, the creamer, and then a saucer of sliced lemons. "I am already tired of summer heat and looking forward to the autumn."

Finally, she laid out a plate of wholemeal bread, a saucer of butter pats, and three condiment bowls of jam: apricot, raspberry, and forest fruit, each with its serving spoon.

"Will your sister be coming for morning tea, madame? I will bring rusks; I know she likes them."

The lady of the house, a woman in her early fifties with sleek, dark hair pulled into a neat chignon at the back of her head and her skin youthful and rosy from a lifetime skin regimen and frequent spa visits, laughed. "Oh, I never know with Van, Tinette. I will ring you if she appears this morning and expresses the desire. You know she is not shy."

Tinette might have responded with the Swiss equivalent of "Don't I know it," had she not been at work and fearful of her position, but merely bobbed her head politely. "Yes, madame," she answered, and glided out of the room. As the door swung closed, she heard a rumbling voice say, "Guete morge, Tinette," and the servant reply, "Guete morge, Monsieur."

The lady of the house had already seated herself at the table in her light robe, a pale violet patterned with tiny white diamonds, facing the door as the man entered. Heavens, he looked more like that classic American literary detective every day--what was his name, Nero Wolfe? He walked quite erect for someone so portly, his stomach leading the way into the room. He was still in his black silk dressing gown, belted tightly at what waist he had left, his florid, double-chinned face under his silver-threaded dark, receding hairline looking slightly amused. He had a computer tablet tucked under his left arm.

"Maxi, you are looking much too cheerful. Have you been toying with our sister again?" she asked as she poured her tea, splashed in the tiniest bit of cream, and then added two lumps of sugar with the tongs.

"What else do I have to amuse myself with these days, Trix?" he chuckled, halting to regard her. "You limit my alcohol use and keep me from talking to the press. I'm reduced to 'surfing the web,' like those tiresome Americans. And I have found something today that will certainly...how do you say it? 'Raise her hackles'?"

"Hackles indeed," Béatrice Piaget said wryly, spooning apricot jam on one of the slices of bread. "You both act like bad-tempered dogs sometimes."

"She is more like a wolf," the portly man said, now a bit grim, setting down his iPad at the empty place setting and settling into his chair. "Goodness, have we nothing more substantial than this?"

"And that, dear Maxi, is why you look like Asterix," Béatrice answered waspishly, but nevertheless tapped the maid's button once again, which summoned Tinette and permitted her brother to order, in deference to her concern about his diet, some grilled trout.

"What have you found?" Béatrice finally succumbed to curiosity as her brother buttered one slice of bread and slathered a second with forest berry jam before pouring his tea and adding a generous amount of sugar cubes.

He snorted. "I knew you couldn't resist," and clicked the iPad to open.

She read what was on the screen with a frown. "You do know how to wave the red cape to her."

Some minutes later, Tinette re-entered with the grilled trout on a platter, with a butter saucier at the side. He immediately laid down his bread, gave Tinette a casual wave of thanks, and anointed the fish with a liberal coating of melted butter from Alpine-grazed cows before digging into it with knife and fork.

"Merci, Tinette," Béatrice said with a sigh.

A moment or two later, the door swung open once again, revealing the object of their conversation, a tall, elegant woman with short-cropped hair and an austere, autocratic manner. She was wearing a pale silk dressing gown sprigged with pink-and-leaf green vines and roses. As she entered, she gave a dissatisfied sniff.

"How can you eat that revolting fish at this time of the day?" she asked tersely, taking her seat at the third table setting.

"I assure you, mon cher soeur," he answered in a light, mocking voice, "that I find it quite delicious."

"Have your tea, Vangie," Béatrice said mildly. "I had planned to do some shopping today. Would you like to join me?"

"Not after what Maxi just showed me," and the older woman sat down decidedly, fixing her tea as she liked it, then taking a slice of bread with apricot jam.

Béatrice sighed once more and triggered the screen of the iPad again. Upon it was a page from an in-house publication from the Canadian energy company Énergies du Bouclier, showing a photograph of two beaming adults, a dark-haired man with film-star looks and vivid blue eyes, and a dark-haired woman with curls spilling down either side of her attractive face. Held between them was a round-faced baby about one month old, clad in a tiny shirt that said "Gens du Pays" in purple on pale green. The infant's eyes were blue, and she was trying to smile but not quite achieving it. The caption read, "Engineer Laurent Pepin and his wife, Noémie, with their one-month-old daughter, Françoise."

The older woman sniffed. "He could have been a CEO by now, but is content to settle for 'engineer' and his little Jew bride. At least she allowed him to give the child his middle name."

"It isn't," Maximiliano chuckled, and then chewed maddeningly long on a bite of trout. She waited him out.

"And that means?" Evangeline Pepin demanded, setting down her teacup with a clatter.

"Must we do this now?" snapped Béatrice. "Maxi, really--and you, Vangie-"

Maximiliano continued as if she hadn't spoken. "Don't you know, Van? Your late husband's bastard keeps a blog...that's an online journal, dearest sister-"

"I know what a blog is," Evangeline retorted.

"-in which she explains the name: 'Françoise' after her adopted father's mother, 'Elisabeth' after her adopted mother's mother, and 'Marielle' after...the little Jew girl's mother. Notice whose name is left out."

His sister's face went scarlet, then white. Rigidly, she wiped her mouth, then stalked out of the room.

Béatrice slapped her napkin down on the table. "My God, Maxi! That is the worst yet! I fish you out of the sanatorium, suitably sober, and then you begin playing new games to torment her."

"Why not?" he asked, face bland enough, but his voice had an edge. "Papa chose her over me-"

"Because you would have lost Duplantix through mismanagement in your drunkenness-" Béatrice bit back.

"-and then she lost everything, not over drunkenness, but over stupidity," he glowered, forking more trout into his mouth. "At least everyone would have said, 'Ah, dear Maxi and his vices! Someone should send him to the spa to dry out,' rather than smearing the Duplantier name all over Europe and losing the family home and treasures in the bargain. To let everyone know our father consorted with the most vile men on the planet! Why you invited her here-"

"For the same reason you are here, Maxi--that I don't wish my siblings dragged further through the mud. Would it be better that she be confined to prison in France?" Béatrice spat back. "There would be the real disgrace. Papà would be turning over in his grave."

Maximiliano finished his breakfast and threw down his napkin with a grunt. "As if he isn't already. Have your private detectives turned up that ridiculous attorney yet?"

Béatrice said darkly, "Théodore Achard is in the wind. I've been told he had close friends in Seychelles. He may have fled there."

"The two of you are hopeless at technology," he said, lumbering from the breakfast room.

               ***September 6, 2025***
               9 a.m., Milbury, Connecticut

"Has it been that stressful a summer?" Robert Goren asked as they embarked on their third annual "haircut and eating out day" before the first day of school.

He was standing inside the door to the sun porch, still screened in at this time of year, watching the two children walk out to Alexandra Eames' blue Honda Pilot. Randall Shaw, their foster son, was talking as usual, still reliving last weekend's rock-climbing sojourn at a nearby Connecticut park, his always untidy dark hair dancing over his forehead and round-framed glasses.

But Olivia, their adopted daughter, walked at a slower pace, as if preoccupied. She was the more extroverted of the pair, but not on this Saturday, and hadn't even bothered dressing up, but had just pulled on a plain violet T-shirt, her oldest jeans, and her sneakers, although she had worn her Christmas locket and pulled her blond curls back with a matching gold barrette.

Alex, a head shorter than her towering husband, saw his perplexed expression. It had been, after their eventful trip to Quebec at the end of June, a summer a bit "eventful" in other ways: stiflingly hot through July and August, interrupted by vast sweeps of rainstorms and thunder, a few with near-gale conditions. They'd had to make an insurance claim on both houses, the old colonial they had inherited and the pint-sized Cape Cod next door that had been their first home together, both homes for roof damage and a screen door torn off the porch of "the Dovecote." Both rooflines had sported bright blue tarps until the claims kicked in.

The one positive note was Randall's recent interest in rock climbing, which currently satisfied his restless nature. They had taken him wall climbing at first, and he proved so adept at it that Nate Berkowitz, one of their neighbors, now escorted him to parks when Bobby and Alex could not. They had also received a satisfactory royalty check from the book Bobby had edited, They Called Me "Conchie," the Korean War journal written by their late neighbor, Bruno Volpe. The memoir was selling steadily from its debut in early June.

"You haven't forgotten, have you? Monday will be her first day in the upper school."

"I didn't think it would have made such a difference. She's always loved school."

Alex had to repress a smile. People saw Bobby Goren, tall and fit in his mid-sixties, with his curly hair mostly grizzled now, and considered him formidable--as well he could be--and unapproachable--but underneath, she knew he was sentimental and nostalgic, not for his own chaotic childhood, but already for Olivia's, which he saw slipping away. "In eight days, she'll be twelve. She's not our little girl anymore, Bobby, however much you want her to stay that way."

Well he knew it, too, as he watched her as she leaned against the car, her purple phone wallet dangling from her right wrist--her round face was slimming, her blond hair becoming more honey-toned, and her body developing. Randall, six months older than her, had gained some height, but he still looked like a boy, while she already exuded maturity combined with her natural self-possession.

He looked down at his wife's still-elfin face, with the caramel-colored eyes that could glow in a manner to make him smile in joy or, if she were hurt or angered, could turn to ice and shatter his soul. She had been a resilient girl whose police officer father faced danger each day, who grew into an uncompromising detective and then a fair-minded and effective police captain. But more than that, she had been able to cope--and even flourish--with his eccentricities, the one person who, despite critical upheavals, had never given up on him.

He smiled, partially to himself. She hadn't given in to him, either.

A sly grin flashed across her lips. "At this rate, soon you'll be at the phonograph, replaying Mike Douglas singing 'The Men in My Little Girl's Life' like my dad did."

"Eames," he said reproachfully, "tell me you'll restrain me before I go that far!" Then he bent down to touch his lips to her forehead, only to have totally practical Alex Eames wrap her arms around his neck and kiss him soundly instead.

They could almost hear Randall's eyes rolling as he sighed loudly, "'Livia, they're at it again."

But it produced a happier sound: Olivia snorted, then laughed.

Alex saw the mail truck roll up to their box and jangled the keys. "I'll start the car, and you get the mail."

"Yes, Captain Eames," he responded and loped to the front gate.

Their stern-faced mail carrier had just opened the mailbox when he arrived, saying disapprovingly as she handed him a magazine, "Just this from AARP today, Mr. Goren," then she reached into the box and extracted a sheet of folded printer paper, "but if you catch who did this, please remind them it's a federal offense to put anything other than mail in a mailbox, please."

"I will, Ms. Treadwell," he said sincerely, although he doubted he would "tattle" on whatever neighbor had left the note. Alex was already backing out of the driveway, so he quickly thrust the offending paper into the magazine and made his way to the car. It was probably from the Danielsons, their elderly "former hippie" neighbors, begging them to take yet more zucchini from their sizable organic garden.

It was only when he was sitting reading the issue as Alex and Olivia discussed with Brenda at The Clip Joint how much to trim her hair that he came across the paper again and unfolded it.

His face revealed nothing when Randall chose that moment to ask him a question, but his attention were still fixed on the printed words:

DOES SHE KNOW YOU LIED?

               ***September 8, 2025***
               6:30 a.m., Milbury, Connecticut

"Randall's up and dressed first," Bobby reported as he peeped through the bedroom door. "Did I miss a transformation?"

Alex applied a final bit of eye shadow to look presentable in the drop-off line--not that she cared, but her daughter might. "You know Min's still worried."

"I know..." he said regretfully. "Shall I...or will it make her too nervous?"

They'd long had a way of speaking to each other, with glances and half-spoken sentences, so Alex automatically responded, "I think she'll appreciate the effort," knowing he wanted to embark upon one of their heart-to-hearts, patting his shoulder. "I'll tend to Randall; just because he's up and dressed doesn't mean he's ready."

And he wasn't, Bobby discovered as he exited the bedroom, for Randall was now having a wrestling match in the upstairs hall with the family collie. Sam was winning and shedding on the boy's navy blue dress pants.

He left Alex in charge of lint-brush duty and knocked softly on their adopted daughter's door.

"Come in, Papa," she said.

Olivia was posed before her bureau mirror, tilting her head back and forth. Normally, she and Randall both wore uniforms as part of their daily routine at St. Gregory's Academy, but dress clothing was permitted on the first and last days of school, on other odd days when "Sister said," and before Christmas break. The previous two years, she'd worn eye-catching outfits with hints of bright purples and blues, so he was surprised to find her in a simple navy blue dress with a full skirt--Alex called it a "twirl dress"--her freshly trimmed honey-blond curls tied back with a blue scrunchie in a demure short ponytail, finished off with navy leotards and black Mary Jane-style shoes. She was wearing her Christmas locket and her new gold-post earrings--she had successfully negotiated with Alex and had her ears pierced in August--and looked overly sober.

"You look like a schoolmarm, Min," he said, using her nickname, short for her actual first name, Mignon.

"Then it's perfect," she replied. "I talked it over with Ana. She said that until I figured out how things work in the upper school, I ought to stay low-key. You know, under the radar."

"That's the advice I got when I first went undercover in narcotics," Bobby replied, amused. "Blend into the woodwork until you get the lay of the land. You're going to miss the lower school, aren't you?"

"I am," Olivia said, discontented. "I love old buildings. Too bad the students outgrew it. The upper school is from," and she curled her lip slightly, "the 1980s."

"Don't you think one architecture snob in the family is enough?" her father chuckled.

"There are modern buildings I like," the eleven-year-old said indignantly. "Like the Louvre!"

He cocked his head at her. "Min, will you promise me something?"

She was surprised at his tone of voice. "What, Papa?"

"Don't ever diminish yourself...your interests...to fit in with a crowd...or a person."

"How?" She was puzzled.

"Well...when your mother and I were in school, it was common for girls to 'play dumb' in front of boys so the boys would like them."

"Why would a boy want a stupid girl?" Olivia asked bluntly.

He smiled. "I never did. I had other bad habits, but never that one."

"Randall better not want his partners to be stupid," she said grimly.

He had no doubt Randall would hear about it if he did.

"C'mon, breakfast," he said briskly. "Now."

"Yes, sir!" Olivia had managed a smile now.

A half-hour later, Randall, in a fresh pair of pants (collie fur having defeated both him and Alex) topped by a fern-colored button-down shirt that brought out the green highlights in his hazel eyes, and Olivia were wolfing down oatmeal as Bobby finished off their eggs. Sam had eaten his dog food and was now staring at the children pathetically. Bandit, since it was a special day, was allowed free range of the table, pattering on uneven budgie feet from child to child, cadging bits of oatmeal--at least until there was a knock at the back door, when Alex whisked the bird back to his cage before letting Ana and Carlos in.

Alex flashed back on the children as she'd first known them at Big Brothers/Big Sisters: Carlos a round-faced, sturdy 12-year-old, and Ana a thin, pugnacious 10-year-old with a penchant for basketball. Now Carlos was sixteen, taller than Alex and gaining on his idol "Mr. G," and Ana was fourteen, also two inches taller than Alex, "filled out," as Alex's late mother would have termed it, and already fretting about not being able to date. The morning had started chilly for September, in the high forties, and both wore jackets over button-down tops, neat jeans, and sneakers; their public school saw no need for dress clothing or uniforms.

"We came over to save Ms. Alex some driving," Carlos said breezily, as if they were some distance away instead of living next door, renting the tiny Cape Cod with their custodial grandmother, Abbi Diaz. Alex, in turn, took all four children to school.

"Eggs?" Bobby asked blandly, still with a spatula in hand.

"No, we're good, Mr. G," Ana said, flopping down in one of the two available chairs, so Bobby had his breakfast as the children chatted about the upcoming school year. Ana told Olivia that she looked "just right" and was rewarded with a smile.

As soon as the food was gone, the four youngsters headed out to the Pilot, three bantering loudly and Olivia quietly trudging in their wake; Alex swooped up her keys and was ready to join them when she noticed Bobby staring at the screen door. He said quietly, "This is the first time she hasn't run for that door on the first day of school."

Alex stood next to him, looping her arm in his. "Even without it being the first day in the Upper School, I remember that age. You don't quite know where you stand anymore."

Bobby's mouth twitched in a smile. "But I thought you had your whole future mapped out from age eleven, Captain Eames."

Her eyes danced. "I thought I had. Funny how acquired tastes change things." Then she jingled the keys. "Gotta get a move on."

The public-school dropoff was easier that morning because it was also Ana's first day of high school, so there was only one stop rather than the previous two; the older girl hugged Olivia before hefting her backpack and following Carlos, who had already been shagged down by a couple of friends. Alex then turned toward St. Gregory's. When she glanced in the rearview mirror, she noted a still-anxious look on Olivia's face, but Randall's usually distracted expression looked oddly resolute instead. She waved a greeting to Sister Mark Anthony as she slowed in the drop-off line, stopped, and waited for the children to exit the car with a sentimental lump in her throat that only grew when she heard Randall say in a very adult voice, "We're early. I'll walk you to the new building."

"That's a nice idea, Rand. Have a good day, both of you. Bobby will be here as usual this afternoon."

"Yes, Mama, goodbye." "Bye, Mom!"

They both watched as Alex drove away and then were shooed by Sister out of the path of the next drop-off.

"No need to escort me," Olivia told him a bit imperiously.

"Nope," Randall said, tossing his backpack over one shoulder. "I don't have to. I want to. Last year, I was spazzed out. You helped me. My turn."

He walked her through the long hall of the original building, built in 1886, lined with beautiful cinnamon-colored woodwork. Sister Rosamund from Admissions saw them and waved, and Randall's history teacher from the previous year, Mr. Krause, smiled and nodded at them. Randall returned the greetings with his head half-ducked; it was still difficult for him to meet people's eyes. When they arrived at Room 101, Brother Michael's homeroom, a tall teenage boy, rusty-haired, freckled and plump, wearing a broad smile, bounced out. His hands flashed with excitement, speaking sign language. = Hi, Randall! Hi, Olivia! =

Randall had been learning ASL to communicate with Kenneth Shepherd, who was nonverbal but could hear, for a year now. He always signed back. = Hi, Kenny! I'm walking Olivia to the upper school. I'll be back. =

Olivia had learned enough ASL from him to manage. = Hi, Kenny, I hope you had a good summer. See you later. =

Randall was as good as his word and walked her to the front door, where much taller and heavier students pushed past them to get inside before the first bell. "Y-You meet m-me tonight," he said solemnly, his stammer returned in his excitement, "at m-my h-homeroom, okay?"

"I will," she promised. "Deep breath. Calm down."

"I will," he echoed, nodded, and marched off.

Olivia watched him until he re-entered the original building, then joined the crowd jostling its way into the newer structure. Having already memorized the map that had been sent to Alex via e-mail, she turned right after the teacher's lounge and the nurse's office and walked the short distance to classroom N102.

The architects had worked hard to capture the venerable spirit of St. Gregory's on the new structure, but the lack of warm woodwork and vintage fixtures in the classrooms made it feel cold to Olivia. She took a seat in the front row, knowing she would probably be moved; alphabetical order was the tradition unless a child had to sit up front for medical reasons. A whiteboard--not the blackboards of the lower school--stretched the width of the front of the classroom, and the ceiling held a projector that would transfer computer images to the board from the instructor's laptop. Two entry doors with a bulletin board between them comprised the right wall of the classroom, the rear contained shelves filled with textbooks, and the remaining wall was made up of windows with baseboard heat below. Olivia grinned when she saw there was a pencil sharpener mounted on one window frame; evidently, the nuns couldn't envision a classroom without one.

A young woman, clad in a conservative white blouse and a simple A-line black skirt, strode in next, carrying a laptop case in one hand and a light coat over her opposite arm, setting the former down upon the wide steel desk in front of the whiteboard. She seemed to be in her own world as she hung up her coat in the teacher's closet, then set up the computer and plugged it into the outlets conveniently placed under her desk. Next, she unlocked the desk and withdrew dry-erase markers from the top drawer, and printed her name, "Caroline S. Perkins," on the whiteboard in blue.

Only then did she acknowledge Olivia, who had pulled out her phone, obediently silenced it, and was currently typing busily with her thumbs.

"I'm sorry," the woman said firmly but patiently, "you can't be texting here."

"I'm not texting, ma'am," Olivia said politely. "I'll show you if you like. I'm updating my blog about the first day of school. I've already turned off the sound. My parents would go spare if I texted at school."

The woman regarded her critically while Olivia did so in return: Perkins had a round face with fluffy light brown hair surrounding it, and very dark brown eyes, a rather square nose, and lips plumped with scant lip gloss. Olivia silently approved that she didn't overdo her makeup.

The teacher's face improved when she smiled. "Are you British, dear?"

Olivia suppressed a wince at the "dear," guessing what would follow. "My Maman was Australian, Miss...Ms. Perkins, and I attended a British boarding school for two years."

Perkins nodded, then asked gently, "But don't you think you're in the wrong room?"

Olivia sighed inwardly. "I don't mean to contradict you, Ms. Perkins, but I've come to the room the e-mail said. N102."

Caroline Perkins looked slightly bewildered, then glanced at her laptop screen, where she had already pulled up the student roster. "You are..."

"Olivia Goren, ma'am."

As more students began to wander in, Olivia saved her blog post and returned her phone to her backpack.

"Yes," Ms. Perkins finally said. "I see you on the roster. Welcome to ninth grade."

"Hi, Olivia!"

Olivia smiled as Jacob Silverman bounded into the room, dressed in a navy-blue suit, powder-blue shirt, and navy tie--his mother's doing, Olivia knew; she tended to be fussy--and a handsome dark blue and silver kippah perched on his dark curls. He reminded her of her friend Noah Benson in New York City. He halted when he saw the teacher, then offered his hand to shake. "Good morning, Ms. Perkins. Jacob Silverman."

Next, he slid into the seat behind Olivia. In a moment, he said in a low voice, "Oh, crap, here comes trouble."

Olivia's eyes shifted to the door. "Who's that?"

"She moved in two doors down from me a couple of days ago. Sididdy bitch."

Olivia's eyebrows shot up--Jacob was never that critical of people.

The girl swirled into the room as if she were a queen; Olivia had to admit she certainly looked impressive. She had a smooth, cameo-like oval face untouched by acne, a slightly turned-up nose, hazel eyes--not so extraordinary as Randall's, but noticeable--and long, wavy sepia hair resting lightly on her narrow shoulders. She wore what was certainly an expensive green blouse and coordinating skirt, along with subdued but costly two-inch heels, which gave her even more height, topping Jacob's five feet seven inches. Olivia was almost certain her teardrop earrings were real diamonds.

Ms. Perkins had written "Welcome" in flowing script under her name when "trouble" reached out her hand. "Good morning, Ms. Perkins," she said in a treacly contralto voice. "I'm Callandra Benoit. I'm so thrilled to be in this school. The academic standards are so encouraging. I plan to attend Harvard, and I'm certain St. Gregory's will contribute to my efforts."

"Poor Harvard," Jacob whispered, and Olivia bit her lip in an effort not to laugh.

Young Ms. Benoit gave them a look that would have frozen the equator. Still, Olivia managed a creditable imitation of Bobby Goren's unruffled expression when he was sizing up suspects for Major Case. Callandra exchanged a few more words with the teacher, then stepped in front of Olivia's desk. "Little girl, shouldn't you be in the Lower School?"

There was always one, every year. Olivia met her stare with quiet equanimity. "Sorry to disappoint you, but no. I'm in ninth grade this year."

The new girl looked her up and down as if she were examining a bug, smiled to herself, then settled regally in the front row on the opposite side.

"Told you she was trouble," Jacob muttered behind her. "She's kinda Nellie Oleson, like on TV."

Olivia had seen only a few episodes of the Little House on the Prairie series--she preferred the books--and knew who he referred to.

"Girl!" The voice made Olivia grin again as Cerise Whittaker rushed into the room and plopped down beside her just before the bell rang. "What else have you been up to this summer besides rescuing poor little French girls from crazy grandmothers?"

Olivia would willingly have gone into more of Paulette Poudrier's story, but Ms. Perkins raised her voice calmly over the tumult of last-minute arrivals. "Take seats, please. We have a double homeroom period this morning, and we need to get seating adjusted and introductions made."

The kitchen was empty when Alex arrived home, the stove clean, and the breakfast dishes in the dishwasher. Sam joined her in the hallway, tail waving, and she knocked at the pocket-panel doors to the library.

"Already put up," Bobby said, and she pushed the doors open. "Finished, in fact."

She eased into the room, having noticed the particular emphasis he had put on the word "finished," and was unsurprised that his work desk was completely cleared. But then so was his writing desk, save for the sheet of printer paper from the mailbox and a second sheet of paper with notes on it. "Anything?"

"Generic printer paper, generic laser printer. I miss watermarks and typewriters." He paused. "No prints."

She arched her eyebrows. "Did you run it over to Kate Shadley while I wasn't paying attention?"

He cocked his head at her with a smile flickering on her lips, and she reacted with surprise. "Don't tell me you still have fingerprint equipment!"

His smug grin was her answer. "Damn, Bobby." Then she indicated the words DOES SHE KNOW YOU LIED? with her forefinger. "Are we even sure this was directed at us?"

"No. Not unless more come."

She toyed with her fingers. "And...if it is, what? Someone thinks you've been lying to me?"

He said, "I have," and when she looked startled, he added with a chuckle, "But I'm still not telling you what I bought you for Christmas."

"You dog," Alex said affectionately, perching on the edge of his writing desk so that he had to swivel to face her, and now she was sober again. "So, presumably it refers to Min."

"And what we haven't told her."

"Which thing? The older one or the newest?"

"If it were the newest, wouldn't it say, 'Do they know you lied?'"

He winced as he said it, as neither of them had the heart to tell either Olivia or Randall that Paulette Poudrier had not been the only child removed from her parents' custody. She knew Bobby recalled carrying chubby Lucien on his shoulders at the family farm, and the memory grieved him.

He only said, "Now we wait."

Alex said lightly, "Until Marc sends you another consultation."

His eyes flickered upward, and she recognized the expression at once; she'd seen it too many times in Major Case. His firm "finished" came to mind again as she said wryly, "So you are keeping secrets."

"Because I didn't decide until yesterday," he admitted. "I told Marc it was my last."

"You tried to give this up once before."

"And failed," Bobby said with faint amusement. "The moment the lectures were gone, I fell back into old habits."

"You've never dealt well with change," Alex agreed, sliding off the desk and padding behind his chair, her lithe, strong fingers finding the tense muscles in his shoulders and deftly massaging them.

He leaned his head back. Finally, he began tentatively, "The kids weren't the only ones affected by Paulette. I watched her, thinking of all the negative thoughts crammed into that innocent brain for nine years, remembering all the negative thoughts built up in my brain in so many more years." He paused, and she could see his cheek twitch, knowing he was suppressing emotion. "Profiling...gave me an outlet, a release, the knowledge that I couldn't change my past, but I could right what was done to others. It gave me hope." Bobby smiled at her. "But I'm done with the darkness. There's only light here. Maybe someday I'll write a memoir."

"Hope shared," Alex promised, kissing his forehead.

"I was also...thinking of a comment I made about Ben Laurette."

"I could hardly forget that case," she said dryly, her thumbs firmly massaging either side of his spine, "or the headlines in the Ledger and the Times when his shenanigans hit: 'Bigamist's Paradise Lost' was one." She added with a snort, "Since he had three wives, wouldn't that make him a 'trigamist'?"

He laughed, and she continued, "In any case, O Great Detective, I didn't particularly take notes on all your pithy observations. Which was this one, my guru?"

"Alex-" he protested, still laughing, capturing her hands in his. "I said something like 'When a man turns 60, he starts thinking about how he's going to be remembered.' I want my kids to remember me as the guy who was there for them, not locked behind a library door."

How like him, Alex thought as he freed her wrists and she continued her massage. Her gaze wandered to his writing desk and the sheet of paper marked in his backhanded scrawl: the word "Quicksilver" and jotted underneath in a tipsy list: "Boston," "Queen Anne," "Saco River," "Anastasia Drake." Finally, the rough drawing of a nondescript human, possibly a child, in slack, casual clothing, reminded her that Olivia, not Bobby, was the family artist.

"Notes?" she asked, giving a last caress to his neck.

Bobby glanced at the desk, then he flashed a grin. "Fragments. Unassembled. Waiting to jell."

"Mixing metaphors, too," Alex laughed. "Well, you may be able to sit here fragmented all day waiting for Jello to set, but I have chores to do upstairs."

She had scarcely reached the doors when he was behind her, left palm smoothing her arm. "Need help making the bed?"

"I can always use an extra hand...or two," she smirked. "But it's funny how it takes so much longer when you help."

He wagged his eyebrows at her. "Um...promise I won't waste your time."

Kenny didn't bother signing to Randall; they both merely exchanged looks as Olivia was abruptly framed in the classroom door, squirming with her shoulder blades under her backpack in evident irritation. Randall knew it would be full: Olivia commonly brought any textbooks home the first day of school to look through, even a math book. There seemed to be a dark-haired, well-dressed girl hovering behind her. Randall made a face and waved a hand at Kenny, then was dragged away the moment he exited Room 101. To his surprise, the stranger followed them.

They immediately spied the blue Mustang in the pick-up line--several other students were pointing, and they heard the word "classic" from one of the seniors. Sam had his head hanging out of the right rear window, panting happily while Bobby animatedly chatted with Sister Mark Anthony, the doyenne of the pick-up line.

Then Sam saw them and barked, and Randall separated from Olivia and ran to pet the dog. He said, "Hi, Dad!" as he pushed the driver's seat forward, tossed his backpack inside, and then crawled in, greeted by a faceful of happy collie. Bobby watched as Olivia glanced behind her at a tall, well-dressed girl who had halted under the rain awning at the school entrance, then hurried into the passenger seat of the car, slamming the door.

"I'll see you tomorrow, Sister," Bobby said, driving away. In a few minutes, he was keenly aware of the lack of usual after-school chatter. "How is Kenny, Randall?" he finally asked.

"He and his sister went to the mountains this summer, in Vermont. Kenny said he wants to have a farm and raise rabbits."

"Does he know he'll have to sell them for people to eat?" asked Olivia sourly, knowing Kenny's fondness for his two pets.

"I wouldn't tell him that," Randall answered, which put an end to conversation.

Some minutes later, Alex watched Olivia dash through the sun porch, across the kitchen, and through the swinging door to the hallway. Bobby and Randall proceeded more slowly in her wake.

"Was it something I said?" she asked wryly.

Randall hugged her. "She was like that when she showed up at my homeroom. Then that girl opened her mouth..."

"What girl?" was Alex's puzzled response.

"Just a girl," was the evasive answer. "Maybe she'll tell us later?"

"Rand, you know what this is about. Come clean," Bobby requested.

The boy's face darkened when he admitted, "Some girl in her class. Olivia said she's Nellie Oleson. Isn't that the mean girl on TV in Little House?"

"As in the books, yes. Thanks."

Randall also disappeared behind the swinging door. Alex sighed. "I guess it was only a matter of time before she ran into the Mean Girls contingent."

"Maybe we need to have Donna call her," Bobby mused.

Alex gazed at him pointedly. "As if I can't give my own daughter the lowdown on Mean Girls."

He chuckled and put his arm around her.

Randall returned after ten minutes, barefoot and in a T-shirt and shorts, perfect for the warm afternoon, with his Chromebook, a spiral-bound notebook, and a pen. Bobby always made gingerbread for the first day of school, and Randall grabbed two big squares of the cake on a napkin and poured himself a glass of milk.

"I'm going in the dining room," he announced, then pleaded with Alex, "Can't you make 'Livia come out? She's got her door closed. It's no fun doing homework without her."

"Homework already?" Bobby asked.

"It's a pre-class quiz. Sister Monica wants to see what we know about basic world history. She'll give the quiz again at the end of final semester to see how much we learned." His eyes sparkled. "I peeked! At least three of the questions I know because we did them for trivia at the Dark Crystal!"

"Who knew all your obscurities would give our kids a leg up?" Alex teased.

"Glad I was prescient," Bobby said, tongue in cheek.

"Now let's see what we can find out about this girl."

As they exited the kitchen, Randall juggling school items in one hand and the gingerbread in the other while Alex carried his glass of milk, Olivia was completing the final step of the staircase and turning toward them. She had her laptop, its coiled cord dangling to the side, and two textbooks stacked to carry them in her hands like a tray. Sam, ever conscious of the children's moods, paced tightly at her right hip. Bobby eyed her, then vanished into the kitchen. By the time she was seated at the dining room table with her laptop open, he had returned with a second glass of milk and a big square of gingerbread, and Bandit was sitting on his shoulder.

The budgie turned the trick by immediately fluttering down and attacking Olivia's spiral-bound notebook with such intensity that she bit back a smile, then giggled, and finally laughed. Now aware that he was the center of attention, Bandit scuttled for Randall's pen and tried to drag it away, but was unable to get his beak into it.

"Silly boy," Alex said indulgently and swept her finger under him. He rappelled up her arm and perched cockily on her shoulder, proclaiming "Good bird!" then bursting into song.

When Bobby put the gingerbread and milk down, he was rewarded with Olivia's quick smile, so he eased into the chair next to her and rescued the printed list lying on the textbooks before Bandit found it.

"I'm impressed," he said after a minute. "This is some reading list."

"I'll say," Alex agreed, having glanced over his shoulder. "Pretty ambitious books this year. Diary of Anne Frank. I think we talked about that in Paris, didn't we?"

Olivia nodded. "At Compiègne."

"A Tree Grows in Brooklyn. I loved that one growing up. And To Kill a Mockingbird."

"You'll like Scout. She's independent, just like you, and loves to read," Bobby added. "Some aspects of the story are difficult, though."

Olivia nodded, then blurted out, "I promise I didn't brag!"

"All right," Bobby answered agreeably. "But brag about what?"

Olivia explained, "For homeroom, we have a student teacher. Caroline Perkins. She introduced herself after attendance: where she was born, about her parents and brother--even Herman, the cat she had when she was a little girl. Where she went to uni, her degrees, and her hobbies: genealogy, reading historical fiction and nonfiction--she's a fan of Dr. Copeland's books, Papa--and kayaking. Then she seated us in alphabetical order--of course."

Alex relaxed next to Randall. Bandit was now happily preening her neck. "Pretty normal start, I'd say."

"Then the rules: no mobiles and all that. After that, she asked us to stand up and introduce ourselves, as she had." She paused, added once more defensively, "I didn't brag."

"I'm sure you didn't," Bobby nodded with an arch of his brows at Alex.

"This is what I said," and Olivia stood up to make her point. "'I'm Olivia Goren, and I was born in Paris, France. My father worked for the French government'--I thought if I said he was a diplomat, the kids I didn't know might think I was snobbish--'and my mother was a student of English literature. Two years ago, last spring, they died in a car accident. Maman's will asked that her American friends Robert Goren and Alexandra Eames become my guardians, so I live here now. They're former New York City detectives and worked together for eleven years. My father then joined the FBI, and my mother was on the Joint Terrorism Task Force. She retired in 2020 and wrote a book about her career called Ice Blue.'

Olivia flashed a proud smile. "Ms. Perkins looked so surprised. Maybe she's read your book! So I said, 'Mama's now a consultant for the NYPD. Papa retired from the FBI this year. He wrote a book, too, called The Refuge, about growing up in Brooklyn. This summer, Hastings House published a book that Papa edited. Our former neighbor, Mr. Volpe, wrote it, about serving as a medic during the Korean War in the 1950s. Papa annotated his war journal, and it was released in June.

"'Last summer, we took in my foster brother Randall, and we're working to adopt him. He went to Canada for the first time this summer, and we're an aunt and uncle now because my half-brother and his wife had a baby while we were visiting. Her name is Frances, and she's almost three months old.

"'We have a collie named Sam who's a therapy dog, and Papa takes him to the Veterans Hospital. And a budgerigar named Bandit who talks. On Wednesdays, Papa and Mama volunteer at Big Brothers/Big Sisters, and on Saturdays and Tuesdays, all four of us run the trivia contest at the Dark Crystal in Milbury. It's jolly fun. My hobbies are reading, writing in my blog, visiting museums, cross-stitching, and watercolor painting. Randall likes to read, too, and he's teaching me sign language.'"

She sat down. "That wasn't bragging, was it? I just said what we do." She paused. "And I didn't use my 'Miss Priss' voice."

Alex stifled a chuckle. "Miss Priss" was their code for the lofty voice she'd used when she'd "crossed swords" with Leo Volpe the previous year. "You might have trimmed our CVs a bit. So what else?"

"I have Sister Infanta for Algebra Plus, same as last year. She said I wasn't ready to go on to Algebra 2. So glad! I have World History II, AP Literature, Biology I, Music I, and Art III. When classes were over, I went to see Ms. Preble for this year's tennis schedule, then went to History Hunters. I told everyone about touring Quebec City, and B.B.--that's what everyone calls Brother Bertram, who's the head of History Hunters this year--said we'd talk about Canadian history."

Bobby's hands were fidgeting. "It sounds like a good day so far."

Olivia made a sour face, then continued her story.

She was at a fast trot, eager to retrieve her things from her desk. But when she turned back to the door, Callandra Benoit was standing in the doorway waiting for her.

Nevertheless, she nodded politely at her classmate. "Hullo, Callandra."

Callandra didn't move.

"Excuse me, please," Olivia said quietly. "I need to meet my brother at his homeroom so we can walk to the pickup line where Papa's waiting. We don't want to be late.""

Callandra shifted, but said archly, "Do you always do what your father says?"

"Mostly," Olivia answered, squeezing past her. "Sometimes I don't hear well when I'm reading."

To her dismay, Callandra kept step beside her as she made her way to the lower school, asking scornfully, "So, how much of your 'biography' did you make up?"

"Every word was the truth," protested Olivia without stopping.

"Daddy's 'in the FBI'? Mommy 'wrote a book'? You forgot 'Once upon a time...'"

"My father's out front. If you ask nicely, he might show you his retirement ID. And if you sneak out your iPhone in class again--you need to watch out, Brother Franco has eyes in back of his head, and he will confiscate it--you can find my mother's book on Amazon. And both of my father's."

They entered the lower school, redolent with the scent of wood polish and beeswax. Randall wasn't at the doorway to Room 101, so Olivia halted outside, reluctant for Callandra to follow her in. The tall girl peered inside, where Randall was putting up his Chromebook. "Who's the goofy nerd in the glasses?"

"That's my brother," said Olivia through her teeth. "He's happy being a nerd, thank you, and we like him the way he is."

They both watched as Randall said good night to Kenny.

"I didn't know retards knew sign language," Callandra added.

Furious, Olivia was prepared to spit an oath at her, then saw Sister Rosamund approach, and gritted her teeth instead. "Kenny isn't...and we don't use that word here. Or at home. Kenny's a nice person. Much nicer than you." A pause. "Randall! Papa's waiting!"

Randall waved at Kenny, then trotted from the room, backpack only half on his shoulder. He looked ready to speak, saw the strange girl and Olivia's scarlet face, and decided to keep his mouth shut. When she grabbed him by the arm and hauled him away, he was glad he had.

Randall was seldom angry, but now he shot out of his seat. "That skank said that about Kenny?"

"Language," Alex warned briefly.

"Or you'll be like her," Olivia added vindictively.

He thumped back into his seat, and Sam moved from Olivia's side to Randall's, shoving his head in the boy's lap. Randall continued, grim, "And you know what, Dad? She followed us all the way down the hallway, and at the door, when Olivia saw you and said, 'There he is!' the stupid girl said real loud, 'Is that your grandpa?'"

"Ouch," Bobby said, but he grinned wryly and scratched at his silver beard.

"What happened here today?" Olivia asked, changing the subject.

"We missed our exercise partners," smiled Alex, because Randall had been running with her and Sam for a year, while Olivia was Bobby's walking companion.

"Saturday," Randall promised without looking up from his Chromebook, and, after searching her mother's face, Olivia finally smiled.

"There was a new royalty check deposited at our bank this morning," Bobby added.

Olivia sat up straight, excited. "So, Mr. Volpe's book is still doing well?"

"Well enough that we can pay all the bills and put some away," he promised her.

"Then Zes was right about all the book signings you did this summer!" Olivia said happily, bouncing in her chair as if she were nine again. "And it was worth that two-hour session in New Haven?" and she snickered when Bobby theatrically mimed wincing and rubbing his left wrist.

"It at least makes up for the heat and the storms," was Alex's wry response.

"I don't s'pose..."

Randall finished for her, "...we could go to Barnes & Noble?"

Now Bobby looked droll. "Or the Book Barn?"

Alex laughed. "You do realize other people go out to dinner or go clothes shopping when they celebrate? But not this family."

"We know how to have fun better," Olivia answered loftily, then proposed, "But we could have ice cream to celebrate." A mischievous look crossed her face. "You owe me for Saturday."

"Oh, so that's how it goes." Alex kissed her daughter's head, adding with a whisper, "Blackmail." Olivia giggled as Alex patted Randall's shoulder. "Finish your homework."

She disappeared out the archway, but Bobby stopped to say to Olivia in a quiet voice, "Good on you for keeping your temper."

Olivia would remember his praise throughout the week as Callandra insinuated herself into her homeroom routine. She always arrived early, so that Olivia had no chance to share whispers with Cerise or Jacob, and chatted up Ms. Perkins from the moment the teacher arrived.

However, by the end of the week, most of Room N102 had had enough of Callandra's apple polishing, and Olivia, by midweek, made up her mind to ignore Callandra's sly morning insults, hoping she would tire of the game. It was not the first time she had been bullied at school.

Ms. Perkins continued to prompt conversation with her pupils each morning, saying she was concerned by students being too absorbed with social media. Daily, she asked a question about themselves; they were free to participate or not. On Wednesday, she asked if any of them had met a notable or famous person. Olivia, spying the history book Perkins had resting on her desk, demurely raised her hand after Callandra announced in a superior tone that before she left Chicago, she had met Cutie Patootie, the Instagram influencer of the moment. Perkins thanked her for participating, but looked unimpressed.

"Olivia?"

"Yes, ma'am, in February I met Dr. Marion Howland, the historian."

Perkins looked surprised. "Really? How did that come about?"

"My brother and I were with my parents at a writers' convention that Dr. Howland attended. It was quite jolly. She and Papa talked about Ken Follett, David McCullough, and Dr. Adlai Copeland."

She saw Ms. Perkins glance at the book on her desk, Copeland's Winter of the Patriarchs, and ventured, "Papa loved that book you're reading. Dr. Copeland's father, son, and nephew were also at the convention," not mentioning the actions of the Copelands in Springfield.

"I look forward to meeting your parents at our first open house!" Perkins said with a smile, then went on to listen to Vivian Hollister's experience visiting Washington, DC, and meeting Senator Christopher Murphy.

"Suck-up," Callandra muttered as they filed out for the first class and elbowed Olivia in the ribs.

"And she thought I was a baby," Olivia complained to Randall later. "If she's not talking about Cutie Poo-poo-" and he laughed, "-she's going on about some boy named Richard."

Friday morning, Ms. Perkins, looking brighter than ever, asked if anyone had special plans for the weekend. She led off by saying she was going kayaking on the Quaddick.

Jacob and his family would be visiting New York City. Vivian Hollister and LaShonda Graham planned to see a comedy caper movie. Callandra said in a snooty voice that her father mentioned attending a special event, "a surprise." Her father was an executive at a large business, so Olivia imagined something quite posh.

Still, she raised her hand. "My birthday is Saturday, so on Sunday we'll go to the Book Barn in Niantic and Barnes & Noble." She paused, then added with a side glance at Callandra, her voice drifting into "Miss Priss" territory, "We aren't able to celebrate on Saturday because my father has a book signing at the new Windford Books in East Haven."

"That sounds like fun," Ms. Perkins said, then went on to the next pupil.

"Please feel free to come, Ms. Perkins," Olivia said sweetly, enjoying Callandra's baleful stare.

"A French guy's speaking to Dad," Randall told Olivia as she rounded the shelves into the Young Adult section, where he was looking for mysteries. He was disappointed, as they all seemed to be fantasies or dystopian. One, with symbols he knew from science class highlighted in gold on the cover, still looked tempting.

"French?" she answered dubiously, and when he nodded, Olivia followed him to the left rear corner of Windward Books, so recently opened that there was still a whiff of paint in the bright, modern interior, where a tall, broad-shouldered and distinguished man with receding, ash blonde hair and dark-framed glasses was indeed speaking in a mixture of French and English to Bobby and Alex. She saw with satisfaction that the Conchie volumes stacked on the table were almost gone and that the French speaker had one under his arm.

After a few minutes, she said loftily, "He's speaking French, but he's not from France."

Randall made a face. "And you know that how?"

Olivia, predictably, rolled her eyes. "You watched all those mystery series with your mum. Dr. Seth Hazlett sounds different than Matlock, and neither of them sounds like Perry Mason. But they all speak American English. French is the same. Come see the amazing Secret Garden I found. It's annotated like the Sherlock Holmes set Papa has. I think that's what I want for my birthday."

Randall adored Bobby's annotated Holmes volumes, so he followed her willingly to the children's section, which was cozied at the right rear of the bookstore near the restrooms. He was paying more attention to the books he passed than to his sister, so that when Olivia stopped dead in her tracks, he bumped directly into her.

"Bollocks!" she hissed.

Randall followed her gaze. "Oh...crap."

Leaned up against the newly-painted powder blue-and-sea green wall which led to the ladies' and men's rooms, clad in another of her stylish outfits, a violet confection with a full skirt, was Callandra, who was complaining vociferously into her iPhone, "...his 'surprise' turned out to be a stupid bookstore."

"Figured she thinks it's stupid," Randall said grimly. Callandra had earned his lasting enmity with her insult of Kenny.

"Even worse," added Callandra, totally absorbed in her call, "Dad's talking with that cringe baby's father and mother about his book." A pause. "I told you, she's in my home room. She's twelve--little baby genius with a posh Brit accent. And she has a cringe brother, too, adopted or something, who's friends with a stupid older kid who can't speak." Pause. "Some book about Korea, where we had a war a million years ago." Another pause, then she said with brighter eyes, "I don't want to talk about her...did I tell you about this absolutely gorgeous boy at school? His name is Ethan Groves, and he's a senior. Of course, he's not up to Richard's standards-"

Olivia had already blocked Randall's path to keep him from reacting to yet a second assault on Kenny Shepherd. "Let's go. She can talk for days about that Richard bloke. Besides, she doesn't even know when the Korean War was, so don't waste your time. The Secret Garden's on the next row."

By the time she had snagged the annotated volume and Randall had retrieved the book with scientific notation on its cover (a mystery/fantasy about a scientifically-obsessed boy who stumbles on an alchemical mystery), both Callandra and her father had departed, and Bobby had two books remaining. Only when they were in the Pilot on the way home did Olivia venture, "Who was the man talking French to you, Papa?"

Bobby turned in his seat. "Lucas Benoit." He grinned at her. "He's Swiss, originally from Lausanne, but his company keeps him here in the States. I didn't know you two had strayed away from the books long enough to see him."

Olivia's look at Randall said, I told you so. "We came back to check on you two, make sure you weren't canoodling in public."

Alex laughed. Bobby snorted, then rambled on, "His grandfather--who was French--served with the U.N. forces in Korea. He was wounded, so possibly he might have met Bruno. Unfortunately, his grandfather isn't alive to ask. Mr. Benoit was very interested in the book. He and his family moved to Connecticut in early September. He mentioned having his daughter with him, but she was upset because he was taking so long. Apparently, she's not much of a reader." He paused, his eyes flickering with realization, then he sighed. "Benoit. I didn't even think..."

"We saw her," Randall said glumly. "She insulted Kenny. Again. And I don't see how she called you our 'grandpa' when her dad is nearly as old as you."

"She said Randall and I were cringe," sniffed Olivia. "On her mobile to someone."

Alex, her attention firmly on the road, but her mouth set in anger, said tersely, "There are always Callandras in the world. I don't know why they feel they have to hurt people, but they do."

Bobby said thoughtfully, "Her father showed no sign of snobbery."

"He was very gracious and enthusiastic. Maybe a little sad, too," Alex added. "He did mention that his daughter 'was a bit of a handful.'"

Olivia muttered, "Only a bit?"

"Maybe she takes after her mom," ventured Randall.

"That's jumping to unfounded conclusions," Bobby reminded.

"I know."

"Sorry if she ruined your birthday," Alex said lightly.

Olivia tossed her head. "It would take more than that silly clot to spoil my birthday. Especially with tomorrow coming up." She playfully elbowed Randall. "And now you can't claim to be older for four more months!"

"Missed you yesterday. Mommy and Daddy Writer pull you from class for another book signing? How did you get special privileges?" Callandra asked from her desk, which, unfortunately, was directly to Olivia's left.

While the older girl wore the regulation school uniform, she managed to highlight it daily in a manner the staff couldn't find objectionable. That morning, a pair of glowing pearl-drop earrings drew attention to her imperceptibly made-up face, and a modest, yet intricate, gold choker accented her slender neck. As usual, she carried a Prada purse along with her books--she preferred to lug them in her arms from room to room rather than stoop to use a backpack.

"We were at a funeral," Olivia replied bluntly as she sat down, turning her phone to vibrate. She hadn't slept well, so she didn't bother opening the book she'd brought because Ms. Perkins's looks of disapproval bothered her when she tried to blog. Callandra typically ignored her after making her usual unkind remark.

"Your parents drag you to funerals?" To her surprise, Callandra looked horrified. "I thought they were niiiice."

Olivia concentrated on the book cover. "We weren't 'dragged.' Randall wanted to go. The person who died was special to someone he cares about. We did it for Captain Benson, Mama's friend--besides, her son Noah and I are best friends. The person who died was once Captain Benson's superior officer, and she was sad."

Callandra rolled her eyes, then squinted at the book. "Psych 101? Don't you ever read anything good?"

Olivia was tempted to shoot back sarcastically, "You mean posts from that barking mad Cutie Poo-poo?" and settled for saying quietly, "Randall read it to understand what Papa does for a living, and I thought I'd try it."

"I thought your daddy was in law enforcement," and Callandra made it sound like Bobby cleaned stables.

That was enough to make Olivia bridle and snap, "He was a criminal profiler. Like on Mindhunter, and I know you've watched that."

It quelled Callandra enough that she was silent before opening her purse for a mirror and some lip gloss.

Olivia warned, "As soon as you get to first period, Sister Conceptión will have you wipe that off. I know it's expensive, so it's not worth wasting it."

"How do you know it's expensive?"

It was Olivia's turn for an eyeroll. "I grew up in Paris, remember? Maman taught me how to spot deluxe."

The other girl said resentfully, "How do you not miss Paris? I hate it here. I wish I could go back to Chicago, or go to Switzerland, even if I wasn't brought up there."

"I miss it," Olivia said, eyes fixed on her desk, but her mind far away. "Shopping with Maman and Luisa--she was my nanny--visiting the Louvre and Montmartre, shopping at Galeries Lafayette and Bon Marché, the food stalls on Rue Cler...Mama and Papa miss their city, too--Mama's from Inwood and Papa from Brooklyn. I see how their faces change when we visit Aunt Lizzie or Uncle Jack. But we're happy here now, too. We have so many friends, and Saturday nights at the Dark Crystal, and we go to museums or to the shore."

"I don't see my brother wanting to go to a funeral."

Olivia had no idea Callandra even had a brother, but immediately felt sorry for him. She glanced at the clock, then returned the book to her backpack and attempted to explain further. "Captain Benson's special to Randall. Last year, his mother went into hospital. His dad wasn't around-" No use "going down that rabbit hole," as her mother would have termed it. "-so they put him in foster care, and that was so bad he ran away, and hitchhiked to New York to find his mother. Captain Benson learned about it and asked if she could talk to him. Then she asked to see us." She smiled to herself. "It was a trick, I s'pose you could say. But we all wanted Randall from the moment we met him." Olivia huffed. "Then his mother died. If the state will let us keep him, we will."

Ms. Perkins entered then, all smiles. Olivia wondered what probing question she would have for them this morning.

Callandra, she noticed, put her expensive lip gloss up without using a jot.

               ***September 29, 2025***

For the past seven school days, the subterfuge had worked.

When Olivia complained about Callandra buttonholing her each morning, Alex had commiserated, "Since you sit next to her in home room, your options are limited. A temporary solution might be walking into the room with only a couple of minutes to spare instead of arriving early. You'll meet Cerise at the door--you say she always gets there at the last minute--and then you can talk to her instead. It’s avoidance, but maybe after a few days of it, Callandra will get bored with you. Or-" And she broached the idea reluctantly, "would you like your father or me to talk with Ms. Perkins about having your seat changed?"

Olivia was horrified. "Mama, you can't do that. Even if no one knows you spoke to her, the kids will ask questions, and I wouldn't know how to answer. Everyone would notice."

"That's why I haven't suggested it," Alex responded with a wry face. "I remember schoolroom politics. The last thing you want to do is single yourself out."

"Like how the coyotes get the weak antelope in the herd," Randall stated, currently engrossed with his science class's study of prey and predators.

Olivia rolled her eyes. "Randall, you say daft things sometimes."

"But very apt," Bobby observed.

Olivia giggled. "I bet the other kids don't have conversations like this with their parents."

Alex chuckled. "Your father's always taken great pride in being unique," ending the discussion on a high note.

After sleeping on it, however, and after dropping Randall off at Room 101, Olivia casually knocked on the door of Brother Bertram's office, which was a door down from the rear exit of the Lower School. Bertram, a tall man with an ascetic face and, as she told her parents, "a real monk's tonsure," bid her enter and to leave the door open as regulations required. Her history questions were endless, and they spent the next ten minutes discussing the St. Lawrence Seaway's effect on Canadian history.

When she left, cued by an alarm on her phone, Brother Bertram said with a wise smile, "Olivia, you're always welcome to come chat. But, if there's something you wish to avoid, remember, you'll have to face the problem someday."

Olivia sighed. "I know. Thank you."

It had worked perfectly, however. She and Cerise had practically collided at the door to Room N102, and they stood talking as long as they could. Callandra only gave her a sour look as she slid into her seat just as the bell rang. And thus far, it had successfully continued.

Today, Callandra was waiting for her at the Upper School's entry doors. Olivia stared because she looked so different: Callandra was dressed simply, in the school uniform only, no attention-getting jewelry or subtle eyeshadow effects. She still had the Prada purse, but everything else was muted. It made her look younger and vulnerable.

"Look," she said without preamble, "I know I've been acting like a cunt for weeks, and no one likes me for it. I get it that you're avoiding me. But can't we talk? It's important."

Olivia flinched at the objectionable word, but recalled Brother Bertram's advice. "I'm open to talking."

"Eames," he said with surprise, "check it out!"

Alex had ended her BLE work early--there wasn't much of it left, and she suspected whomever won the New York City mayoral race in November would put an end to the committee anyway (if it continued to exist, the new regime would certainly appoint their own candidates)--and had instead accompanied Bobby in the Mustang to enjoy the sunny 75-degree afternoon. They arrived early enough in the pickup line to run into the father of one of Randall's history classmates, Joey Landolfi. Simone Landolfi was a Revolutionary War re-enactor, and they--well, mostly Simone and Bobby if she had to be honest--had been discussing the upcoming Ken Burns' documentary when the bell rang. Children soon poured out the main doors, some headed for the buses, others wandering toward the pickup line. It took time for Olivia to walk from the Upper School to the Lower, for both to say goodbye to Kenny, and then to reach the front door, so it was some minutes before they saw their children emerge.

Alex blinked. "Is that...Callandra?"

They both watched Olivia separate from the dark-haired girl, waving happily to her, and then trotting beside an unimpressed Randall on their way to the car.

Landolfi saw Sister Mark Anthony eye him and grinned. "Better get going before I get rapped on the knuckles with a ruler, huh?"

"Don't you know it," Bobby chuckled, waving him off.

"Let her have her surprise," Alex warned, amused.

"I'm cool," Bobby said, just as Randall jogged up. "You brought Mom! Dope!" and he hugged her.

"I assume that means I'm good?" joked Alex.

Olivia's face was shining. "Did you see? She apologized to me."

Randall scowled. "Not to me."

"She said to tell you she was sorry," Olivia replied defensively.

"In the car, c'mon," Bobby said, herding them toward the doors. "Before Sister Marksy gives me a demerit."

There was a flurry of getting into the back seat, then Bobby putting the car in gear, before Alex requested, "All right, Min, what happened?"

"She stopped me at the door this morning!" Olivia said animatedly. "And apologized for herself. And about what she said about Kenny," she was hasty to add.

"Did she explain her behavior?" Alex asked tartly.

"She hated leaving Chicago and her friends, especially Richard, a boy she likes. Her father's away much of the time, and she's home alone with the servants. She hates reading, and all she has is the internet."

"Poor little rich girl," remarked Alex.

"It doesn't mean she has to be nasty to Kenny," Randall muttered.

"You're right, it doesn't," Bobby answered reasonably. "But it would explain why she acts as she does."

"But her uncle talked to her last night. He's her mother's twin brother, and she misses her mother."

Like you, Alex thought. Hell, who am I kidding? I still miss my mother.

"He said she should try to be more accepting; that she lived in a wonderful place--that he was the one who recommended this area and St. Gregory's to her father. She didn't know that he had recommended St. Gregory's, but I s'pose that made it better to her." Olivia shrugged. "So she told me she decided she'd try to do what he asked."

"I'm glad she has somebody to talk to with her father away so much," Alex concluded briskly as the Mustang cruised Milbury's tiny main street. Abbi Diaz was emerging from El Rancho, the Mexican taverna directly across from the Dark Crystal, where she worked part-time, and they waved as they passed by.

"Callandra says she can talk with the cook and the maid if she gets lonely," Olivia stated, "but that still sounds lonely to me."

"Me, too," agreed Alex, and by then they'd gone the four blocks to Courant Street, turned the corner, and then entered the driveway, where Bobby parked next to the Pilot and the adults emerged so the children could explode behind them.

"Callandra says she has a book of Parisian photos that her uncle bought years ago," Olivia chattered on as she emerged from the back seat. "She says she'll bring it to school so we can look at it before class."

"And it's done, as quickly as that," Alex laughed as the girl scampered off. "I remember being like that, in a raincloud one day, and next day walking on air."

Bobby nodded, although his childhood had not been that carefree. Alex caught his look and squeezed his arm, and that shook him from his brown study and produced a more relaxed grin.

"It's nice, though, her wanting to be friendly with Callandra despite the way she's been treated, because she knows Callandra is lonely. She's...she's got a good heart. Anyway, let me get the mail before I come in," he said.

Real estate flyer. A hard copy of the monthly bill from Dr. Allyson. A BJs Club flyer.

And from the very back of the mailbox, the crisply folded sheet of printer paper, which, when he opened it, stated

SHAMEFUL TO KEEP THE TRUTH FROM HER.

"Not done so quickly after all," he murmured.