Thursday, he made the lamb dinner—the one from the early years, two hours, the good butcher, candles. He looked at me across the table with something that was either love or a flawless simulation of it. I thought about the boy in Akron, and ate every bite, and told him it was perfect. It was.
Friday morning, he left at eight. I watched his car turn off Calloway Street, then called Moyá. Two agents arrived at nine-fifteen, quiet and efficient, moving through the house like people who had done this before. I made coffee. Nobody touched it. Yvonne arrived at ten and stood in the doorway, taking in the room without flinching.