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“What do you mean? He was right here napping just a second ago. He’s probably in the bathroom.” Alex jumps up, slips past Simone and actually runs down the hallway to the first of the three bathrooms on the floor. Whether his heart is racing from panic or exertion, it only speeds up when he sees Poppy isn’t there, and runs to the next bathroom, all the while cursing why this house has to be so unnecessarily large.

When Alex was growing up, it was possible that the two of them could meander around the mansion for days without seeing each other. The extreme square footage and all the nooks and crannies were a blessing, in that Alex could hide from his grandfather when he needed to—after a biting lecture or in the wake of some sort of vague disappointment channeled toward Alex. In this way, he could spare his grandfather (and himself) the shame of emotions and weakness until he could “buck up.”

The door is closed to the second bathroom, the one with the wallpaper made of actual newsprints from the 1930s. Always a pleasure to read about a world war kicking off while you’re taking a piss.

Alex knocks on the door as hard as Simone was shaking him minutes ago.

“Yes?” Poppy’s irritation is obvious.

“You okay in there?”

“Of course, a little privacy?” His sharpness is a relief.

“Ah yeah, yeah, sorry, take your time.”

Back in the living room, Alex finds Simone staring through the lead-pane windows to the circle of towering evergreens that surround the frost-kissed backyard. She’s all of five feet across the room, but somehow she feels miles away. Which is just as well since Alex is suddenly self-conscious of the booze on his breath. She can’t smell it from all the way over there.

“Poppy’s fine. Just in the bathroom.”

“Oh, okay, good.” She hasn’t turned to face him.

“What are you even doing here, Simone?”

“Uh… I wanted to check on Poppy. I figured you’d be at work.”

“What’s wrong?”

“What do you mean, what’s wrong?”

“Simone. You’re my wife. I know something’s wrong.”

“Sit down. I need to talk to you.”

“I’ll stand, just tell me.” He flexes his stomach, bracing for the blow, for his wife to tell him she’s leaving him for Kwame. It’s easy to imagine how this will go because he’s done that obsessively for the last week.

Instead, Simone starts babbling about a woman named Marjorie, and a Black kid who disappeared. The pill must have hit Alex harder than he thought, because none of this makes any sense. Something about a farm. His grandfather knocked someone up? And she does mention Kwame, but not in a way that makes sense. What does a fucking podcast have to do with any of this? Alex can’t make any of this connect in his mind, so he stares at his wife dumbly, relieved she doesn’t seem to be having an affair, but still very confused. His relief and the bliss of confusion is short-lived; it lasts until the next breath, when she pours a metaphorical bucket of ice water over his head.

“Alex. Are you understanding me? I think Poppy may have something to do with it. I think he was involved with Wade’s death. He might have even been there when he died. Or… or worse.”

Alex picks up a throw pillow and sends it sailing across the room. “WHAT IN THE ACTUAL FUCK, SIMONE? You’ve been gallivanting around with your shady ex playing Scooby and Thelma, solving mysteries. And then you come back here to tell me you suspect my grandfather is a murderer? ARE YOU KIDDING ME RIGHT NOW?”

He’s never screamed at his wife before, and now that he’s opened up this possibility, he may never stop. “He’s a sick old man!!! He told me he wanted to die today! To die. And here you go—” Alex stops dead in his tracks. “Hold up. Were you actually with Taylor today? Or were you… were you with him?” On the last word, he sends an unsightly spray of spittle arcing through the air.

“I was with Taylor, I swear. And I’m sorry, Alex. I know this is a lot to take in, but…”

“But what?”

“But something happened to Wade and—”

“Who cares?”

He thought he’d seen all the looks Simone’s face could make, but this one is completely new.

“ ‘Who cares?’ Do you hear yourself, Alex! Who cares that someone died? That a young man might have been murdered?”

He’s not going to let her become the morality police. “Let me tell you what I care about. I care about my family, and while you’ve been playing detective, I’ve been trying to save it, save us.”

“What are you even talking about? Save us from what?”