SERVED
follows "Wayfarers"

                ***October 19, 2023***

"Let me do a final check," Alexandra Eames Goren said, eyes darting around the modest kitchen.

Her husband stopped her, knowing how thorough she had been already. "Alex, enough. If we make it look too perfect, they'll think we are shamming."

"Really?" she responded puckishly. "You're telling me this after you just finished baking gingerbread and have it on your mother's best serving platter?" Her eyes shifted to the counter where the item rested, covered with aluminum foil.

He put up his hands, fingers splayed. "Guilty."

She added defensively, "I haven't made it look too perfect. I left my laptop out, and our notes, and I didn't ask Olivia to put her paints away–"

And Robert Goren had left dishes in the drainer and books out where books usually were. "It can't look like the stark fakery of House Hunters. God knows we're not the Brady bunch."

She finally laughed, knowing they'd both set up the house as carefully as they'd once set up an interrogation. "Min still practicing?"

The air was cool rather than cold that October afternoon, with a flame-touch of golden orange spread over the leaves of the two maple trees in their backyard and the bittersweet on the back fence bright scarlet with equally red berries, weather so temperate that the back door was wide open. Beyond the metal table and chairs at the center of the porch and the screened walls, they could see Olivia under the closer tree, using her racket to smack tennis balls into a rebound net. Perfectionist Ms. Preble at St. Gregory's Academy had advised her to practice her overarm service, so she was expending her excess anxiety on the gadget. Their big collie, Sam, a placid tricolor so laid back that he'd earned a therapy dog certification, was lying with head alert in anticipation for a tennis ball to bounce the wrong way so he could fetch it. Occasionally, they noticed, Olivia would deliberately make a bad shot, the tennis ball would arc over her head, and Sam would lope after it eagerly, the child smiling fondly in his wake.

They shared the same thoughts as they watched her: how Ruth Dunbar, Olivia's case worker, had warned them that once the girl's school routine was in place, independent inspectors would begin accompanying her on her welfare checks. It was the price they paid for the accelerated adoption procedure, and all three had gently advised Olivia that this was a normal part of the routine. While Olivia nodded at them gravely, saying she understood, it didn't prevent her formerly decreasing night terrors from resurfacing; Alex and Bobby had been obliged to provide reassurance in the wee hours for the past week. They also observed how she did her homework more often in the kitchen than at her desk and remained in the living room rather than retreating occasionally to sit cross-legged on her bed as she read a book or worked on cross-stitch ornaments from the Christmas magazine Alex had bought for her, clinging to their proximity.

"We've jumped through the hoops successfully so far," he said speculatively. "What's spooked you about this visit?"

"Just the look on Ruth Dunbar's face when she told me 'Ms. Hannah Love' would be accompanying her."

Bobby reminded, "We have the State Department clout behind us."

"I don't want them to bail us out," she said firmly, with a hint of bitterness. "I don't want to be one of the privileged snots getting their way because they have connections, like Madame Pepin—there are already enough of them in D.C.! I want to hear from DCF, an honest opinion on how we're doing as parents."

"Ruth's already done so."

"She's our friend."

"She's friendly with us, Alex. She isn't our friend," he reminded soberly.

"There is that. Look," Alex concluded, "go upstairs and finish your work. They'll be here soon."

"All right," he said with a faint grin, "I'll banish myself."

"Bobby..."

He chuckled, kissed her forehead, and left Alex to what Frances Goren might have called "making buttons." When he had mounted the stairs to reach what in jest was called "his lair," where he did his consultation work and which served as the household library (not that there weren't books all over the house), Bobby peeked from the south window into the backyard where Olivia was still slapping tennis balls, then returned to his desk to close out work so he could chat with Dunbar and the presumably formidable Ms. Love.

He was not at the window to see Olivia pause when she spied their next-door neighbor haltingly emerge from the sunroom tacked on the rear of the Colonial-style home that anchored the corner lot of Courant Street. The metal spring of the sunroom's vintage wooden screen door made a distinctive creak that always alerted her. Bruno Volpe moved more slowly now than when Robert Goren had first made his acquaintance in September of 2020, using a cane rather than walking freely, but, even with unsteady gait, the short, squat man with a tonsure of white hair and clouded dark eyes still had a genial smile for Olivia as he waved at her. She dropped her racket and pelted to the fence, Sam trotting beside her.

The Korean War veteran regarded the ten-year-old fondly. "You're a little overdressed to be thwacking that ball around, aren't you, young lady?"

She regarded him with the wide, always observant eyes that were a legacy from her mother, glancing at the lace-collared blue sweater and stud-pocketed jeans she'd changed into after school, along with her best blue tennis shoes. "There's an inspector coming today," she said in an almost breathless voice that was still bright with the British accent she had picked up from her mother and reinforced by two years in an English boarding school. "From Children's Services."

"I know, Viola told me when she dropped my groceries by." Volpe's voice was indulgent. "That inspector's here only to see that you're being properly cared for."

Olivia looked anxious. "What if she doesn't think so?" And then her face grew mutinous. "I won't leave Mama and Papa! Maman meant me to stay here, and I want to stay here. It's my home now and–"

"Don't borrow trouble, Olivia," Volpe counseled. "You know you have friends who will fight for you."

"Everything's fine," Olivia scowled. "I meet all the requirements—I looked it up! I'm doing well at school, and have friends and family. Dr. Allyson thinks I'm fine. We don't need any inspectors."

Volpe leaned over the low chain-link fence that separated the Goren property from his own. "Olivia..." and he regarded her with sympathetic eyes. "You told me once your mother had been hurt as a child. Maybe...if there had been inspectors back then, someone might have found out and stopped it." Olivia looked pensive at the idea, and he continued, "It will be all right. And for crying out loud, girl, be yourself. Don't try to sell this inspector a bill of goods—that means don't put on an act. If this is a senior inspector, they've heard hundreds of fakers. They'll know if you're telling falsehoods."

"Just like Papa?"

"After all the fakery they've been exposed to? I'll just bet."

"Olivia!" they heard Alex call from the house.

Volpe put his hand out for Olivia to shake. "Good luck, soldier."

She saluted him instead. "Thank you, sir!"

"What little I've read of this case," Hannah Love declared to the driver of the Ford Escalade, "convinces me I don't like it."

Ruth Dunbar wouldn't admit to her that she hadn't either, at first: the State Department's insistence that she take Mignon Pepin's case had irritated her immediately, but the Gorens' welcome cooperation had done much to assuage her reluctance, as it left her more time to concentrate on the rest of her caseload. Dunbar had come to like the offbeat couple, not to mention their curious, lively ward—liked them much more than the bureaucratic autocrat who barged into her office monthly demanding a "closeup" of one of her cases. Her heart had sunk when she realized Love had picked this of all cases to drill her about. "I've worked with what I had, Ms. Love, and feel it's been rewarding. The Gorens have been exemplary, and the reports from Dr. Allyson, as well as from Dr. Chaudry, are all positive. Did you see Olivia's contributions to their travel blog?"

"Why was the child allowed to leave the state?" Love asked sharply. She was a tall, heavyset, generally brisk but brusque woman in her late 50s with carefully coiffed dark hair done in tight curls around a square face, rigidly dressed in a dark grey pinstripe business suit with the square padded shoulders of the blazer giving her a military bearing, with a goldtone blouse and sensible dark shoes. The one burst of color was an almost frivolous (for her) leaf-shaped vintage costume jewelry pin in gold with round and baguette-shaped clear and green rhinestones on her left lapel.

"Her parents were scheduled for a book tour," Dunbar explained as they drove. "Would you have had them abandon her to relatives instead, a month after bringing her home from France? They were certainly insistent enough that she be included. Although her classwork was sent to her electronically from her boarding school in England, they also engaged a tutor for the entire four-month tour. It's a far cry from half my clients who can't be bothered to attend PTA meetings."

"A certified teacher?" Love asked stiffly.

"It's in the file, ma'am," Dunbar said, hiding her annoyance. "Donna C. Hogarth. York County, Maine, middle- and high-school instructor for fifteen years."

"Tell me about these Gorens," the inspector demanded, settling back.

"Both were former detectives with the NYPD. Mr. Goren initially was in Army CID, Ms. Eames–"

"Mrs. Goren?" was the quick reply.

"Ms. Eames continues to use her maiden name, ma'am, on all but legal documents. Mr. Goren prefers it as well—he says she had her own identity before they married, and he doesn't wish to take that away from her," Dunbar crisply responded. Love grunted, whether in approval or disbelief. "Ms. Eames is legacy NYPD; both father and grandfather were uniformed officers. She initially worked Vice; and was previously married to a fellow officer killed in the line of duty. Mr. Goren came into the NYPD through Narcotics. They worked together in the Major Case department for eleven years, then Mr. Goren was offered a position at the FBI. He continues in that capacity currently as a consultant. In January, he'll become a lecturer in his specialty, profiling."

"Profiling? Isn't that like that television series...what's it called? Criminal Minds?"

"Yes, ma'am. Upon his departure, Ms. Eames transferred to an NYPD Homeland Security taskforce; eventually was promoted to the rank of Captain. She retired in December 2020."

"And how does she spend her days now?" Love asked in an undertone that implied that an individual retiring was somehow a criminal offense. Dunbar was looking forward to her retirement in a few years and privately scowled.

"Until last autumn, she was working on her book," Dunbar continued, reminding herself not to grind her teeth, "as was Mr. Goren."

"They wrote a book together?"

"No, ma'am, they each wrote a book, although Mr. Goren did provide some pullouts for Ms. Eames' memoir. The books are in my glove compartment if you'd care to check them out," and Dunbar gestured toward the dashboard. "Ms. Eames' is a history of her career at the NYPD, basically about being a woman in a traditionally male field. Mr. Goren's is about his childhood and how libraries helped him overcome certain...familial difficulties. It was on the bestseller list for over a month."

Love flicked open the six-part brown file folder, at which Dunbar suppressed a groan because, naturally, Hannah Love had tagged all the negative parts. "Mr. Goren was a physically abused child?"

"The nature of the complaint was neglect, ma'am, not physical abuse, and not a total fault on his mother's part as has been implied. His father was a gambler and adulterer, generally absent from the family dynamic. When he was home, there were negative emotional interactions. His mother was a well-respected Brooklyn librarian, but schizophrenia manifested. She received no support from her spouse, just periodic assistance from her mother until that woman's death and a brother until his death. Mrs. Goren eventually divorced her husband and continued to raise her two sons as well as she could manage. Unfortunately, the older son also fell prey to a gambling addiction and later began using illegal drugs. Once Robert Goren became reliably employed, he sought additional psychiatric care for his mother, eventually rehoming her at the Carmel Ridge Center, a well-regarded nursing home in Carmel, New York."

Love eyed her. "You like this couple, don't you?"

Dunbar said quietly, "Yes, ma'am, I do. They have taken their parenting responsibility seriously and have cooperated with us meticulously. Olivia is happy, healthy, and enjoying her new life, although she still misses her biological parents. They, I understand from the State Department files, had their shortcomings, although one could not say Olivia herself was abused. Her birth parents adored her, and so did her nanny."

"As for your question about her mother," and Dunbar emphasized the last two words, "Ms. Eames works with Mr. Goren on Wednesdays mentoring children at the Big Brothers/Big Sisters organization. She and two other women fundraise for the same organization. Ms. Eames is also the one who trained the Gorens' collie Sam as a therapy dog. Mr. Goren takes Sam to the Veterans Hospital and St. Bernard's Hospice on Thursdays. Ms. Eames sometimes accompanies him with her bird, which is why a percentage of their book sales support the Neuroblastoma Children's Cancer Society, in memory of a patient at St. Bernard's that Ms. Eames befriended."

Hannah Love gave her a sideways glance as Dunbar entered the small town of Milbury. Main Street was reasonably busy that afternoon: Rise'n'Shine, the breakfast-and-lunch-only establishment, was already closed for the day, but El Rancho, the Mexican street-food taverna; Sweet Scoops, the ice cream place; the conventional Starbucks; the takeout-only Ling Chow's Chinese restaurant; and the restaurant and bar The Dark Crystal were all doing steady business, as was the CVS drugstore that had opened a month earlier. She slowed down opposite The Dark Crystal's facade and added casually, "The Gorens—and Olivia—run the pub quiz here on Saturdays and Tuesdays. It's been written up favorably on NewEngland.com."

A blind lowered against the sun in The Dark Crystal's front window made her smile as she drove on, while Love said, surprised, "The child is in a...bar twice a week?"

"It's a family restaurant, ma'am, which includes a bar, like Olive Garden or Longhorn," Dunbar corrected. "You can read the reviews on Yelp and TripAdvisor. I'll introduce you to the staff if you like. One of the owners is the son of a judge."

Love grunted at that. "Incidentally, why is the child referred to as 'Olivia'? Her records say her name is 'Mignon.'"

"That was Olivia's choice, ma'am. You see–" To herself, she thought, What did I do to deserve this?

"What is it, Mama?" Olivia said as she jogged to the back porch.

"Shard's been keeping a lookout for Ruth Dunbar and just saw her drive by," Alex told her, and Olivia ran up the two steps to throw herself into Alex's arms.

"Think of this as just another DCF visit, sweetie. You know we'll have several inspections before they finalize the adoption," Alex told her soberly, returning the hug.

"What should I do?" Olivia asked. "I mean when they get here."

"Just as always when Ruth comes alone. For now, go back to your overarm service, if you like. By the way, it's looking 'smashing,'" Alex returned, using Olivia's slang. "Or play fetch with Sam."

"Mr. Volpe says I should 'be myself,' and so did Papa."

Alex kissed her forehead. "That's for the best. No one else does Olivia so well."

Olivia looked pleased with Alex's assessment, then dashed back for her racket so that when the red Escalade pulled into the driveway of 4 Courant Drive a few minutes later, she was steadily smacking the ball into the net again.

She wouldn't tell Mama or Papa it made her feel better to hit something.

"The three of them live in this tiny house?" Love asked, curious, as they pulled into the driveway behind Bobby's battered blue Camaro and Alex's white Honda CRV.

Dunbar said mildly, "The home I grew up in wasn't much larger, and there were five of us. They have a living room, kitchen, two bedrooms, and bath. Upstairs is the family library and Mr. Goren's office. In addition, there's a basement area where half is set up for visitors. The other portion has an exercise area and a space for Olivia. The shed visible in the backyard has been converted to outdoor offices for Mr. Goren and Ms. Eames in warm weather. The swings were installed for Olivia and her friend Ana. And there's Olivia now, practicing her tennis serve. She's quite 'mad' about tennis, her school principal tells me."

"That is St. Gregory's in Southbury?" Love asked as she unbuckled her seat belt.

"Yes. Her biological father left her a stipend for education in his will. The Gorens thought it was the best school in the area, comparable academically to the boarding school she'd been attending."

Love gave another little grunt as she opened the passenger door, but Dunbar ignored her as she emerged from the driver's seat and pressed the lock buttons. Seeing Dunbar appear, Alexandra Eames straightened her back, then emerged from the screened-in porch where she'd distracted herself by watching Olivia distracting herself, looking cool and collected in a sea-green blouse and navy slacks, still wearing her favorite running shoes, her highlighted hair falling to her shoulders. If she was worried, Dunbar couldn't see it.

"Good afternoon, Alex!" she said warmly.

"Hello, Ruth," was Alex's equally cordial reply, and then she nodded in a friendly manner at Hannah Love, privately thinking the woman didn't look like either of her names. "Good afternoon, Ms. Love."

The latter appeared miffed that Alex already knew her name; Alex approached her with the same benign attitude she had cultivated with superiors at work she didn't particularly like but knew she had to deal with. She resented neither visitor; she believed, as Volpe did, that perhaps if someone like Ruth Dunbar or Hannah Love had intervened when Nicole Wallace's father had abused her, things might have been different. A blameless toddler might not have died, Bernard Fremont's homicidal allure could have proved unattractive, no prison time would have ensued, and Wallace's New York crimes might never have occurred, especially the murder of Bobby's wayward brother Frank. Maybe Nicole would now contentedly be teaching English lit somewhere in Australia, a mother of a grown daughter, instead of having experienced death offroad near Chamonix.

No Olivia! Alex reminded herself, then wondered if it was selfish. Aloud, she said, "Please come in."

She opened the back door to find the drop-leg kitchen table fully opened, the gingerbread on the gilt-rimmed rose-painted serving platter in the center of the table with a knife next to it, and five places set with a matching dessert plate, napkin, teaspoon, and fork. The kitchen smelled of gingerbread and coffee brewing; Bobby was retrieving four coffee cups and a drinking glass from the cabinet to the left of the sink. He had gone to the barber the previous day, his silvering curls tamed for now, natty in tailored grey jeans and an ice-blue polo shirt open at the collar to reveal the pewter medallion Alex had bought him the previous Christmas.

He gave the visitors a friendly smile. "Good afternoon, Ruth. Good afternoon, Ms. Love."

Alex's glance at him said clearly, Don't make it look too perfect, huh?

He arched his eyebrows with a smile flitting across his lips and eyes. You knew I wasn't perfect years ago, his face seemed to say. Alex returned the smile semi-ruefully, then asked their new guest, "Would you prefer tea, Ms. Love? We have English breakfast tea, peppermint, and chamomile."

Love regarded him suspiciously. "Coffee will be fine. How did you know we were coming at this time to have something freshly prepared? Did Ms. Dunbar tell you?"

Bobby said mildly, "DCF always comes at this time of day. Olivia is home from school on Thursdays by this time—she has after-school activities on Mondays and Wednesdays, and Tuesday is our trivia night—and this hour is best so they can return to New Haven before the brunt of rush hour begins. And no one comes on Friday due to rush hour." He cocked his head at her, then asked lightly, "Is that a Trifari piece on your lapel?"

Love looked startled. "Why, yes...you know something about jewelry?"

"One of the cases we handled while working together was a high-priced theft of vintage costume jewelry," Alex explained. "We received a detailed education on the manufacturers and the values."

Bobby glanced at the brooch shrewdly. "That looks like an Alfred Philippe design."

From behind Love, Dunbar flashed a grin for a second before squelching the gesture lest she be detected, but not before Alex and Bobby had noticed her expression but remained poker-faced.

"Yes, it is," was Love's more tempered response.

Point for us, the slight tilt of Alex's head told him.

Polite chit-chat ensued about weather and traffic, followed by an invitation to sit down; finally, Bobby set the coffee pot on a trivet in the middle of the table, poured milk in the glass, and left the rest of the half-gallon on the table next to the sugar bowl. Here was Alex's cue to turn to the window and call Olivia. Immediately came the thump of the screen door, a brief flash in the back door window as the racket and the three balls were put away, and Olivia slowly pushed the door open as Sam squeezed in first, panting happily.

What Love made of the first sight of her was unknown, but both Bobby and Alex could tell she was reluctant to enter, an anomaly in such an otherwise outgoing child. To soften the situation somewhat, Bobby made a hand signal to the collie, who obligingly sat and offered Ruth Dunbar his front paw. She patted him instead, and he repeated the performance, albeit slightly reluctantly, with Love. She shook the dog's paw gravely (one point for her, they thought), then turned her attention to Olivia.

What happened next was automatic, as Olivia knew this portion of the formalities from long practice in France; her former nanny, Luisa, would have been embarrassed if she had forgotten her manners. She curtsied and said sweetly, "Good afternoon, Ms. Dunbar. Good afternoon, Ms. Love. I hope you had a pleasant journey."

"Traffic was pretty good today," Dunbar smiled. "No 18-wheeler accidents."

"That's good," Olivia continued, then told Hannah Love, "My cousin Donny drives an interstate truck. Usually, he works a Virginia/Maryland route, but he comes back to visit Aunt Evelyn occasionally." She was sizing up Love as she spoke, Alex noticed with amusement. "Donny is the son of Papa's brother, Frank. Uncle Frank is deceased."

She looked around then, as if the idea hadn't occurred earlier, and asked, "Mama, has Ms. Love met the whole family?"

Without waiting for an answer, she trotted down the short hall, returning with Bandit on her finger. The predominately white budgie, whose black stripes around his eyes had given him his name, promptly flew to Alex's shoulder. He knew Ruth Dunbar by this time but gave a suspicious cock of his head at Love's presence and sidled next to Alex's neck, where he kept a wary weather eye on the stranger while nibbling the ends of Alex's hair.

"Now," Olivia said politely, sitting next to the setting with the glass of milk, "we're all here."

Bobby gave her a pat on her shoulder that was at once approving yet reminded her not to go overboard. Her blink acknowledged his message.

There was additional polite chit-chat about milk and sugar, followed by Alex serving slices of gingerbread to all, including a tiny sliver for Bandit, who descended to the table to gobble the cake happily, and Olivia asked Sam to sit, then offered him a thin slice as well. The dog willingly accepted the treat but, like Bandit, continued to look askance at the stranger who appeared to have upset Olivia.

"So, Olivia, I see you like tennis," Hannah Love began.

You must not roll your eyes with certain people, Luisa had drummed into her, even if the remark was comically obvious. Very well. "Yes, Madame. I can play badminton, too, but I don't feel it's as challenging as tennis."

"Any other sports?" And now the inspector did sound genuinely curious, so Olivia eased her attitude. "No. That would take time away from the other things I enjoy. I run with Mama in the mornings sometimes now. When I first arrived, I only walked with Papa."

"And what are your favorite subjects at school?"

Adults always ask the same questions! I will not roll my eyes.

"Mostly everything, Madame, except for algebra. I'm not a 'math person,' Ana tells me. Ana's my best friend who's not at school."

"You're doing algebra in fifth grade?" Love looked puzzled. Dunbar gave her a narrow look as if to say, "Did you only read the parts of the file you wanted to read?"

"Here in the United States, I'm in seventh grade, Madame. At my old school, they called it First Form. I used to help my friend Renata with her homework. She's just age thirteen." Olivia lowered her voice. "She was kept back a year—she rarely studies because she doesn't like school, just riding her horse and reading mystery books. She's read all of Agatha Christie!"

Love digested this along with her gingerbread. "And what are your hobbies? Just tennis?"

"I don't think of tennis as a hobby," Olivia replied thoughtfully. "It's an outdoor exercise which is healthy for me and which I like to do, and it's a sport. If you don't have a sport, the other children think you're odd. So I chose tennis."

Alex's eyes flicked to Bobby. Well, we told her to be herself. And he smiled in return.

"My real hobbies are reading, cross-stitching, and watercolor painting. Mostly reading." Now Olivia gave Bobby a big smile. "Papa loves to read, too. We have hundreds of books upstairs."

Alex said, tongue-in-cheek, "And downstairs. And in the living room and Olivia's room..."

Olivia offered, "I'll show you when we finish."

Then came more polite talk about the weather, and before long, Love's "interrogation," as Olivia saw it, began. Neither she nor her prospective parents expected them to be the confidential questions Dunbar or Dr. Allyson asked her during each visit; they wanted her to know that if something disquieting happened, Olivia could broach it without fear. Olivia never mentioned the inquiries—if she were frightened of something at home or if anyone (not just her prospective parents, but their friends or family) had done something to make her uncomfortable—but Alex and Bobby were already aware of them.

Each time she posed those questions, Dunbar noted no negligible variation of her original response: "I was frightened when I first came here, but I trusted Maman. She promised me if anything happened to her and Papa Marcel, I would be with people who would care for me. It was hard waking up the first few mornings. I wished I was in my old room at Maman's flat. But then we would have breakfast and do chores together. Mama and Papa made me feel like I belonged. They knew I was hurting and let me cry. Papa sang me my song and Mama would stay with me. Once I made friends with Ana and Carlos and the others at Big Brothers, it was better. Shard and TJ and the staff of the Dark Crystal took care of me, too, and Mr. Volpe next door, and Mrs. Perrino—she even made me a middy dress for trivia nights and the Elsa Halloween costume I'll be wearing."

Love's questions in the cozy kitchen were more general, so Olivia lobbed answers like tennis balls:

"My favorite thing on the telly is Molly of Denali. We went to Springfield—that's in Massachusetts—to see a Molly of Denali exhibit last month after we got home from the book tour. There was a replica of the Trading Post and the Tribal Hall, and you could virtually fly Layla's—she's Molly's mom—airplane. I also like a quiz show called Jeopardy, and my tutor Donna introduced me to Star Trek. I've seen the original and animated series and a few of the newer ones."

"Oh, I loved the book tour! We went out West and back. We saw the Smithsonian museums and the Space Needle and Mr. Hearst's castle and real-live bison. I met a Navajo girl, Ginny—her Native name is Doli, which means 'bluebird'—whose grandfather is a silversmith, and we talked to a man in Birmingham who marched with Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. We saw the Great Salt Lake. Our driver, Michael, was a former FBI agent and Marine. In Las Vegas, we met Dr. Gil Grissom, who's a forensic entomologist—that means he studies insects in dead bodies—and he has a ten-centimeter-long cockroach. Then, at the end of the tour, my tutor Donna became engaged to Papa and Mama's publisher—the younger Mr. Hastings, but we call him 'Zes'—that's 'six' in Dutch—and I'm going to be a bridesmaid when they are married next month."

"At school, we're studying the American War for Independence. In Boston on the book tour, we saw the Tea Party ship and Paul Revere's house—he didn't finish his ride, you know, despite the poem!—and the Old South Meeting House where Samuel Adams gave the signal for the Tea Party: 'This meeting can do nothing more to save the country.' Papa read Johnny Tremain to me, and the author quoted that speech. On the book tour, we also saw one of the last battlefields of the war, Cowpens. The guide said this is a forgotten battle today but was very decisive. Everyone only remembers Yorktown, where General Cornwallis surrendered. Yorktown was nice, too! And Williamsburg! At Williamsburg, the printer allowed me to touch the press!

"What I'm reading? I'm re-reading a favorite book, Le Cheval Sans Tête. That's The Horse Without a Head. It's about ten children who are friends in a small French town after World War II. They're poor and have only one toy which they share, a wheeled hobbyhorse. It's stolen so they have to find it. One of the best characters is a girl named Marion who rescues and finds homes for stray dogs—she is wonderful! Papa reads to me before bed, too. We're just starting one of my favorite books, The Chestry Oak, about Michael, a Hungarian prince my age during World War II. He has a nanny just like I had, only her name is Nana. Oh, and I'm reading The Usborne Science Encyclopedia, too!"

Alex and Bobby sat back and let her roll while Dunbar struggled to keep a straight face. Sam, however, bored with human chatter and understanding no further treats were coming, retreated to his bed in the living room.

When Hannah Love's questions appeared to have concluded, Olivia took a breath, sipped her milk, and added almost meekly, "I'm sorry for talking so much. Maman always said I was very voluble."

Even Ruth Dunbar sucked in her breath when Ms. Love abruptly asked, "Do you miss your parents?"

Alex's face said clearly, What kind of question is that?

Olivia looked injured. "Of course I do! Maman and I were very close. And even though Papa Marcel had another family, we always had jolly times together! He taught me to ski and to swim, and we had nice times. Madame Pepin and Yves and Stéphanie never liked me, but my half-brother Laurent did. I e-mail him once a week."

"I've read about your father's career, but what was your mother like?"

When Alex tensed, Bobby laid a quiet hand on her thigh. She has no right, her eyes said to him.

He nodded imperceptibly, but Olivia just gave Hannah Love a bland look. "She was my maman. She loved books and good music and learning new things. We had lovely times together—shopped and went to bookstores and museums." She paused, then asked more fiercely, "Or are you asking me about her past? Because I can tell you that she came from Australia and didn't have pet koalas and kangaroos like the girls at school always insinuated. Her father—I won't ever call him my grandfather!—was a wicked man who hurt her from when she was very young. He touched her...in private places, and if she cried when he did, he would slap her. He told her it was all her fault that he was doing it to her, that she made him do it."

The kitchen now rang with silence, for just related were events Bobby had always suspected, but they were subjects Olivia had only addressed with her therapist. He laid a gentle hand between her shoulder blades, and the little girl continued stolidly, her jaw set. "He was why she always told me I had to be sure no one touched me inappropriately. But Maman didn't like men after that. I don't blame her. But she hurt some of them and did bad things to them. She went to prison for it. She told me so. She said the only two men she ever trusted were my father–" and then she smiled shyly at Bobby. "–and Papa." Then she hastened to add, "And she told me she trusted Mama because she was never disingenuous and always spoke her mind.

"I think," she finished respectfully, leveling her eyes on Love, "it's time for you to see our house so you will know everything is fine." And she stood up. "Please let me escort you."

Ruth Dunbar gave Love a sideways look; the latter looked dumbstruck. But Olivia offered the inspector her hand, and Hannah Love came around the table to join her. She noted Olivia's sage-green painted room with its bookcase-headboard bed (and bookcase and night table) full of books and a desk covered with quaint watercolor attempts; the compact bathroom filled with space-saving crannies; Alex and Bobby's peaceful blue bedroom with Frances Goren's beautiful highboy bureau taking pride of place; the tidy bluish-grey living room with yet more books and DVDs and Bandit's two-level cage (here the budgie abandoned Alex's shoulder to climb back inside for a snack); upstairs to the library and Bobby's desk almost invisible under books and stacks of paper along with books practically spilling off the shelves; and finally downstairs to the snug basement with its paneled and floored guest area on one side and the practical but more primitive concrete side, with the furnace, washer, and dryer, the exercise space, and Olivia's new favorite spot.

The basement's north corner had been empty when they departed on the book tour, the poured concrete walls a somber, flat gray. Now that corner was painted buttery yellow, fronted by an L-shaped combination of two standard bookcases and a single corner bookcase from IKEA stretched seven feet tall and four feet wide on either side, filled with volumes from Olivia's former home in France. A small wooden stepladder with handrails and wheels, designed to access the highest books, was next to them, and completing the area was a compact upholstered chair facing the shelves. A little table next to it held a stack of more books. An autumn-colored zigzag-patterned afghan lay over the back of the chair, and the foam rubber squares covering the concrete floor were identical to those of the exercise area but in yellow and orange instead of grey.

"Uncle Mike and Aunt Carla put this together for me while we were on tour. They were 'housesitting'—what a funny word!—for us. He used to work with Papa and Mama at Major Case, and she's a librarian like Papa's mother was." The recollection of the surprise made her grin. "Aunt Carla said Uncle Mike used a lot of bad language putting together those shelves! Mama's sister—my Aunt Lizzie—crocheted the afghan for my birthday last month."

Love had been generally quiet during Olivia's tour, so she appeared slightly startled when the girl asked, "Would you also like to see the shed, Ms. Love? It has windows with screens, so Papa and Mama may use it as an office when it's warm. Sometimes Ana and I sit in there and talk. Ana says it's our clubhouse. I like to sit on the blue bench at the back. That was my favorite thing when I visited here last year with Maman and Papa Marcel. That's where Papa kissed Mama for the first time, and he painted the date on the bench. I still think it's very romantic!"

Love said nothing, and Olivia asked, now slightly anxious, "It's a proper home, isn't it, for a little girl like me?"

The older woman seemed to emerge from her fog, her voice unexpectedly quiet. "Yes, Olivia, I think it is."

"I'm glad," Olivia said, sober, and then abruptly ran to hug Bobby as if she were half her age. One hand smoothed her flyaway hair.

Alex added softly, "So we meet your standards, Ms. Love?"

Hannah Love suddenly realized all eyes were upon her, including Dunbar's gimlet stare, and she gathered up her notepad and iPad into a self-conscious embrace, lifting her chin in the air. "Yes, of course. I knew when I read this case file that things were well here. Ms. Dunbar has given me excellent reports." She glanced at her watch. "I'm sure we need to get on the road, Ruth, so we avoid rush-hour traffic, don't you?"

"Yes, ma'am," Dunbar agreed with an ironic nod.

Love then mounted the stairs, leaving Dunbar with her right hand over her mouth to suppress a laugh, but her eyes danced just the same. Olivia chose that moment to turn her head sideways and give her a wink, and Dunbar tapped her on her nose and whispered, "You're a little monkey, you know that?"

"Mas oui," Olivia replied, then added earnestly, "Have a safe trip, Ms. Dunbar. See you next month. Oh!" Suddenly, she pulled away from Bobby to dart upstairs.

Alex added dryly, "I keep thinking, Ruth—Diplomatic Corps?"

Dunbar quirked an eyebrow at her. "More like 'profiler in training.'"

Bobby sighed. "I hope not. As far as I'm concerned, she's already had enough trauma in her life."

When the three adults reached the top of the stairs, they witnessed Olivia shaking hands with Ms. Love while wishing her a pleasant weekend. When the back door finally closed behind them, and Dunbar's car had pulled out of the driveway, the three of them sighed in unison and collapsed back at the kitchen table, regarding each other in silence.

"May I have another piece of gingerbread?" Olivia finally asked brightly.

"I think we all deserve one," Alex responded, so Olivia cut three squares and handed them out, knowing that now that their guests had departed, they could use fingers instead of forks. But after one bite into his portion, Bobby was chuckling.

"I know I told you to 'be yourself,' Min, and you certainly took me at my word!"

Alex added, "It was nice of you to rush upstairs after Ms. Love and give her such a gracious sendoff after all those nosy questions!"

Olivia blinked at her. "What would she have thought of you and Papa—and Maman and Luisa!—if I hadn't been polite? Besides, I didn't rush upstairs to do that—I had to make sure Bandit was safe in his cage before they opened the back door!"

Bobby laughed, to which Alex responded with a grin. "I like the way you think." Sam, awakened by the laughter, came wagging into the kitchen to confirm the questionable visitor was gone, and Olivia slid to the floor to hug him tightly. "Don't worry, Sam. I think I convinced Ms. Love this was home for good."

"Game, set, and match," Bobby quipped.

A glint of mischief appeared in Alex's eyes. "Exactly. In fact, tomorrow at school you can tell the terrible Ms. Preble at your overarm service has definitely improved. You won this one 10 - Love."