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She breezes by me down the porch steps and to her bike.

“Good riddance,” I mutter.

Over her shoulder as she pedals away, she calls, “See you tomorrow.”

I watch her until she’s out of sight, not sure what to make of her. The makeup, the clothes, the poet mother, and the weed in the shed. She doesn’t swear and speaks like a straight A kid yet looks like she might run off with a circus full of emo clowns. A complete paradox.

And not my problem.

Over the next hours I pack up the rest of Archie’s belongings. I finish the kitchen—the few pots and pans Wren couldn’t fit in the box. In the downstairs bedroom covered in wood paneling, I take down creepy framed art of Norman Rockwell–style paintings of kids fishing, their skin so creamy white they look like little ghosts in everyscene. In the closet, there’s a stack of old sheets and blankets. Most of it I pitch, but there’s one quilt that looks like it has a history. I keep it, along with one framed photo: the same one that was in the back of Lydia’s album of her and Archie holding a baby. I don’t know them—not really—but the smile on their faces as they look at the child feels like home. I’m not the sentimental type, but I can’t get rid of it; maybe I’ll call Lydia and give it back to her. After all, it’s her family, not mine.

A tap on the window pulls me from the photo; on the other side, a mostly bald man with a combover and wild eyes smiles and waves before stepping to fill the propped-open front doorway. I note the gigantic pit stains on his light blue button-down shirt and the bright white shoes that peep from the bottom of his navy dress pants.Who in the sweat-soaked hell is this?

“Scotty?” He grins. “Vince Allers. We emailed about listing the place.” His eyes dart around. “What a diamond in the rough!”

Recognition strikes: the real estate agent.

“Hi.” I set the framed photo in the Keep box and close the distance between us. The sweat glistening on his forehead makes me wonder if he ran here from another continent. “I wasn’t expecting you in person.”

“Who can resist?” He pulls a handkerchief out of his pocket and blots his forehead. When he notices me watching, he waves it around like a flag before shoving it in his pocket. “Hyperhidrosis,” he explains. “I sweat like a whore in church.”

Okay.

“Anyway, I had to stop by. I knew your grandad. What a guy!” I frown at the mention of my deadbeat relative while he claps his hands and rubs them together quickly, the shape of his eyes nearly morphing into actual money signs. “This place could make us a fortune.”

My eyebrows raise, and he chuckles, waving his palms toward me. “Mostly you, but, hey—” He rubs his index finger and thumb together. “Guy’s gotta pay the bills, right?”

I force a smile “Sure.” We look at the boxes I’ve been working on. “I can show you around . . .”

He bats a dismissive hand.

“No need.”Thank God.“You’re busy. Just a few minutes of walking around will be good for me to get a good grasp for some firm numbers. Any bodies I should know about?” He chuckles; I don’t know if it’s because he knows my profession or just tells shitty jokes, but when I don’t laugh, he clears his throat. “That work for you?”

On one hand, I’m concerned his sweat situation is going to cause water damage anywhere he walks, but on the other, I appreciate his eagerness. I want this thing sold yesterday.

“If you don’t mind mothballs and hideous décor,” I tell him, gesturing with one hand to the house. “She’s all yours.”

He chuckles. “I’ve seen worse.” Then, with a whistle and phone in hand, he starts examining the house, opening kitchen cabinets, closet doors, and the box of tricks at the bottom of the steps. As he pries the lid off, Molly’s head fully dives into it.

“Sex toys help with resale value, Vince?” I ask from across the room.

He jerks to a stand with a sheepish chuckle. “Never know.” He gives me a wink before pulling the sweat rag from his pocket and wandering down the hall.

Nosy bastard.

I lift a box labeled Donateto take to the Bronco. Through the open front door of the house, I hear tires crunch. The banging of a tailgate. The dumping of something pebbly.

When I peek my head out, there, with a bag of birdseed, stands Ford. Feeding the birds in the middle of the yard.

“Can I help you, Officer?” I ask, descending the porch steps.

He turns with a smile. “Scotty.”

I prop the box on my hip when I’m beside him. “What are you doing?”

“Feeding your birds.” He hangs a filled feeder on the crook and fills another one before tossing the empty bag into the back of his truck. He’s wearing athletic clothes; there’s sweat around the neck of his grey T-shirt.

“You still going to that boxing gym?”