“Does Dad know anything about the house?”

“No,” I said.

“He doesn’t.”

“I won’t tell Mom anything,” she said, resting her head back against the wall.

“Thank you, sweetheart,” I said.

She got up off the storage bin, smoothed the front of her sweatshirt, and went into the house through the mudroom door.

At six thirty, Daniel carried a platter of broiled pork chops to the dining table and pulled out his armchair.

“Things move fast down on Willow Creek,” he said, shaking out his linen napkin.