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wooden fence that enclosed the backyard. The pool was covered, the pool furniture stored in the cabana. The diving board stretched out over the vacant cement cavern.
    Eddie stood on the recently mowed lawn and decided that this was an unhappy place. He didn’t know how he sensed such things, and he understood that no one would pay any attention to what he thought, and yet he knew absolutely that this house was unhappy and that if Tony’s wife had left it, there was a good reason for it. He would never say anything like this to Tony, of course, because no matter how it came out, Tony would hear it as an accusation. A guy always took it that way. He might rage about what a bitch his wife was, but in his heart he’d feel that in some important way he hadn’t measured up.
    He turned back toward the car, now resolved that he had nothing to bring back to Tony, nothing to tell him save that Sara’s car was in the driveway but that she hadn’t answered the door. Tony wouldn’t like it that he hadn’t gone inside the house, but what could be done about that? Nothing, Eddie thought, until he noticed a woman at the mailbox across the street and wondered if maybe she could help him out.
    DELLA
    He was a big guy and she was sure Tony had sent him. As he came toward her, she noticed his hands, how huge they were, and the shoulders, enormous. So maybe it wasn’t Tony who’d sent him, she thought, maybe the guy had been sent by Tony’s father, one of Old Man Labriola’s goons.
    â€œHi,” the man said as he drew close.
    She closed the lid of the mailbox before replying. “Hello.”
    â€œMy name’s Eddie,” the man said. “Eddie Sullivan.”
    The guy smiled, and Della thought it a warm, curiously innocent smile. But then, these guys all smiled that way, didn’t they? These made men who joked with you until the moment they wrapped the cord around your neck or put a bullet in your head. She’d seen guys like that in the movies, and she believed the movies were true.
    â€œI was wondering if you know the people across the way,” the man said. “Tony Labriola? Sara?”
    She felt her hands tighten around the stack of bills she’d just retrieved from the mailbox. “I know Sara.”
    The man smiled again. He had a gap between his teeth and looked harmless, but she steeled herself against believing that he really was. A guy like that, she told herself, a guy like that could break your neck in a second, then go have a big bowl of his mother’s Irish stew and forget the whole thing.
    â€œTony’s been calling Sara all morning, but she don’t answer,” the man said. “He’s worried about her. Maybe she had an accident, something like that. He sent me over to see if she’s okay.”
    â€œI haven’t seen her,” Della said.
    â€œThis morning, you mean?”
    â€œI haven’t seen her in a couple of days.” Della thought of her last sight of Sara. She’d looked the way women did whose husbands slapped them around, but Della couldn’t imagine Tony doing that and so had supposed it was something else that was eating Sara. Maybe the fact that she’d never had any kids. Women without kids looked that way sometimes, Della knew, all hollowed out.
    â€œTony give me a key to the house,” the man told her. “But, you know, I didn’t want to . . . barge in, maybe scare somebody, you know?” He drew the keys from the pocket of a blue parka and offered them to her. “So, maybe you could take a look inside. Make sure there ain’t nothing wrong.”
    She didn’t know how to refuse, so she took the keys and walked with the man back across the street, unlocked Sara’s front door, and walked into the house.
    â€œSara?” she called. “Sara, you here?”
    She turned and noticed that the man remained outside, and suddenly he seemed astonishingly shy to her, and