At three thirty, Carmen stood on the DeLuca estate porch with Renata’s library book held against her coat.

She had placed a small paper bookmark inside it, the kind the library gave children who returned their books on time.

“She left this in the sitting room,” Carmen said.

“I thought she might need it for school tomorrow.”

“Thank you.”

She handed it to me, then glanced at the concert invitation in my other hand.

“May I attend?”

“If Renata wants you there.”