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with an apron tied around her waist. Like a housewife from the 1950s.
    Ryan went through his spiel. “Hi, I’m Ryan, and this is my wife, Cassie. Tobias Mandelbaum sent us. He said you might be able to help me with my ‘wish’ problem. Can we come in?”
    The woman drew a surprised breath, and Cassie detected a slight shifting within her clothes, a stiffening of her leg muscles, as if she were about to flee. She acted like a cornered animal. “Who did you say sent you?”
    “Tobias Mandelbaum. Do you know him?”
    “I’m sorry,” Delilah said carefully.
    “He gave me your name and address.”
    She seemed to draw a blank. She wiped her hands on her apron and said, “Where are my manners? Won’t you come in?”
    Cassie could tell by the grim set of Ryan’s mouth that he was losing hope by the millisecond. “Thanks,” she interjected, accepting for both of them. She felt sorry for this woman, living way out in the middle of nowhere.
    They took off their sunglasses and entered the house, which was relatively dark. The air smelled oppressive, of burnt toast and marshmallows. They passed an oval mirror in the foyer, a jam-packed coat rack and a scratched mahogany side table. Cassie noted the pile of unanswered mail in the basket on the table. Dust coated every surface like a sprinkling of talcum powder. So much for Delilah Kincaid’s housekeeping prowess. So much for the apron.
    The cautious little creature escorted them into the living room, where flimsy lace curtains billowed in the warm breeze. It was brighter inside the living room than the rest of the house, and Cassie noticed streaks of gray running through Delilah’s shoulder-length dark hair. Perhaps she wasn’t so young after all.
    A strange-looking boy sat cross-legged on the carpet, playing with a couple of battered toy trucks—a big lumbering child whose arms dangled from his broad shoulders. He had a flat, lazy face, and there was barely any color to his cheeks. He wore a crazy-looking outfit—red plaid pants, a pale orange shirt and rainbow-colored suspenders. He stopped playing the second they entered the room and pursed his lips like a sour old lady. He seemed to instantly find fault with them.
    “Andy, say hello,” Delilah coached.
    “Hello.”
    Cassie felt the hairs quiver on her arms. The boy was 12 or 13 and very intense-looking. He stood up and came tumbling over to them. He wore scuffed loafers but no socks. His face flushed an ugly mottled red color. He held up his hands as if he were passing her a baby. “Would you like to play with me?” he bellowed.
    Cassie turned helplessly toward Delilah.
    “Go sit down, Andy,” Mrs. Kincaid said with a flustered wave of her hand. “Can I get you anything?” she offered them. “Coffee? Tea? Lemonade?”
    “I’ll have a glass of lemonade,” Ryan said, surprising the hell out of Cassie.
    Cassie shrugged. “Sure, thanks.”
    “Two lemonades?”
    “Fine.”
    “Have a seat. I’ll be right back.” Delilah seemed grateful to have something to do and quickly disappeared into the kitchen. They couldn’t refuse her hospitality, especially because she acted like a woman who rarely had visitors.
    Ryan and Cassie sat together on the mustard-colored swayback sofa, while Andy Kincaid resumed his private games. He smashed two trucks together and said, “Ka-pow! Crash! Boom!” then looked at them and laughed. He wouldn’t stop laughing, until they responded. Cassie smiled nervously, while Ryan pointed his finger at the boy and pulled an imaginary trigger. “Ka-pow,” he said, and the boy laughed even harder. Then he repeated the whole thing again.
    It was beyond bizarre.
    “What’s going on?” Cassie whispered in Ryan’s ear. “Does she know Tobias or doesn’t she?”
    “No idea,” Ryan whispered back. “I suppose we’ll find out.”
    “No whispering,” the boy said, pointing an accusing finger at them.
    “Sorry, buddy.” Ryan shrugged.
    Andy laughed and crashed the trucks