And the silence around us changed, all at once, its quality shifting from the smug amusement of a moment before into something confused, and cautious, and rapidly curdling toward alarm.

Marcus stared at Emma.

Then at me.

Then, slowly, beyond me, toward the source of the word Emma had said. Dad. I watched him do the arithmetic, watched him try to make the numbers work and fail, because the woman he had left in ruins five years ago was standing in front of him holding a laughing child who had just called out for her father, and the father was, apparently, approaching, and none of it fit the story Marcus had told himself about the wreckage he had left behind.

Chloe’s face had gone uncertain.