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even mentioned it! Please, enjoy your pie—and your evening.”
    With that she left, closing the door behind her.
    “What a strange—” Cordelia started, but her father said, “Shhh.”
    “What?”
    “When you say good-bye to a person, you always wait ten seconds before talking about them.” He counted down: “Two . . . one . . . go.”
    “What a freak ,” Brendan said, rejoining them. Dr. Walker sighed at the futility of sending his son to his room. “I bet she isn’t even sick. And you better throw that pie away. Definite anthrax alert.”
    “For once, Bren, I agree with you,” said Dr. Walker, dumping the pie in the trash.
    “Hold on!” said Cordelia. “You guys aren’t being fair. She could just be senile. She’s obviously not really Kristoff’s daughter. He built this house in . . . Bren?”
    Her brother thought for a moment. “1907.”
    “Right, so what is she, a hundred?”
    “If she was born here, she could be as old as a hundred and six. And you should see how she looks before she takes a shower. And gets teeth-whitening strips.” Brendan was wondering how he would sleep tonight. Forget the lacrosse stick—he needed a flamethrower.
    “She was a little creepy,” Mrs. Walker said. “I don’t like the idea that she used to live here.”
    “Don’t worry, it’ll sort itself out.” Dr. Walker put an arm around his wife. “Let’s just be thankful that the move is over and get dinner.” He kissed Mrs. Walker on the cheek.
    “Who wants to try our new pizza place?” Mrs. Walker asked. “It’s called Pino’s.” She was already looking at her phone. “It’s supposed to be delicious.”
    “I’m going upstairs,” Cordelia said—and then, in a whisper to Brendan, “to find out a little more about Dahlia Kristoff.”
    “I’ll come with,” Brendan whispered back, surprised at his sudden urge to work with his sister.
    “No, you’ve got to talk your way out of being grounded,” Cordelia said, leaving Brendan . . . who looked up to see his parents standing over him, ready to have a long talk with him about threatening people with weapons.
    Upstairs, Cordelia took down a picture from the wall: the faded image of the elderly woman, who Diane Dobson had said was Kristoff’s mother, holding a baby. She went to her room, got a nail file, and came back to the hallway. She used the nail file to open the frame, moving very slowly and carefully. Finally she got the picture free. On the back of it, perhaps in Denver Kristoff’s own handwriting, it said: Helen K w/Dahlia K, Mother’s 70th, Alamo Square, 1908 .
    Cordelia flipped the picture over to look at the baby: the infant Dahlia Kristoff. Her eyes had the same steely intensity—
    “Cordelia!”
    She nearly jumped out of her skin. It was her mother from downstairs. “Pizza’s here!”
    Cordelia shimmied the picture back into the frame, which was a very painstaking process that left her pizza downstairs almost cold by the time she got to it. She found her family on the living room floor, digging into a pepperoni pie without plates, pouring cups of soda for one another. Dr. Walker had hooked up the TV and ordered an on-demand movie: the Marx Brothers’ Duck Soup .
    “The Marx Brothers? Again? We always watch the Marx Brothers!” argued Eleanor. “Can’t we watch something in color? Where the people are still alive?”
    “It’s a family tradition,” said Dr. Walker. And he was right. Whenever the family had something to celebrate, they’d order up a Marx Brothers classic. The opening credits for Duck Soup began to roll.
    “What’d you find?” Brendan whispered to Cordelia.
    “Dahlia Kristoff is in one of the pictures upstairs. And if that picture is dated correctly, she’s a hundred and five years old.”
    “Did you see her hands in the picture?”
    “Yes, why?”
    “Because somewhere along the way she lost one. I have to tell you something, Deal. I didn’t want to say, because I was embarrassed, but—”
    But the