“Yes, I do love you,” I said, bending to let her wash my chin, giving her a big hug.

I called out, “Joe. Your elderly primigravida has arrived.”

Claire had told me that elderly primigravida meant “a woman over thirty-five who is pregnant for the first time,” and it was a quaint and unflattering term that I usually found just hilarious.

Joe called back, and when I rounded the corner, I saw him standing between piles of books and papers, wearing pajama bottoms, a phone pressed to his ear.

He dialed down the volume on the eleven o’clock news and gave me a one-armed hug, then said into the phone, “Sorry. I’m here. Okay, sure. Tomorrow works for me.”

He clicked off, kissed me, asked, “Did you eat dinner?”

“Not really.”

“Come to the kitchen. I’m going to heat up some soup for my baby. And for my old lady too.”

“Har-har. Who were you talking to on the phone?”

“Old boys’ network. Top secret,” he said melodramatically. “I have to fly to DC tomorrow for a few days. Cash flow for the Molinari family.”

“Okayyy. Yay for cash flow. What kind of soup?”

It was tortellini en brodo with baby peas served up in a heavy white bowl. I went to work on the soup and after a minute, I held up the bowl and said, “More, please.”

Between bites, I told my husband about the house of heads, which was what the Ellsworth compound would inevitably be called from that day forward.

“It was indescribable, Joe. Heads, two of them set up on the back patio. A display of some sort, like an art installation, but no bodies. There was no sign of mayhem. No disturbance in the garden except for the two holes the heads had been in. Then CSU exhumed five more heads, just clean skulls. Honestly, I don’t know what the hell we’re looking at.”