“He did. Died a few years back and I inherited all this.” He gave a grand gesture and a sardonic smile. “It was perfect timing. I had nothing better to do so I came home.”

Now she remembered the tall, gawky, older kid she’d sometimes notice sweeping the floor or stocking shelves. More often he’d be sprawled on an old couch in the back of the store, all knees and elbows and sneakers already the size of bread loaves, reading comic books or playing Nintendo to the telltale boop-beep-boop of Super Mario. She wanted to ask where he’d returned home from. What had he been doing with himself since P.S. 68? Why hadn’t he sold the store?

“You still into video games?” she asked instead.

“You still living in Brooklyn?”

Ouch. His look said he’d pegged her as one more privileged, overeducated hipster refugee from Park Slope. If only she could afford an apartment in Park Slope.

“Don’t worry. I’m not moving in. I’m just here . . .” Her phone vibrated. She slipped it out of her pocket far enough to see who was calling. Seth. She’d call him back later. “I’m just here for a few days to help my mother out.”

“How’s your mother doing?” Finn asked. She could tell from the uneasiness of his look that he knew about her mother’s problems. Though if he lived here, how could he not?

“She’s in the hospital.”

“I’m sorry.” He paused. “You’re staying in the house?”

“I think so. Though I haven’t been over to see how bad it is.”

He nodded. Good poker face.

Evie took the paper off the ice cream bar, wrapped it around the stick, and took a bite. Her favorite flavor, but she could barely taste it. Then she realized she hadn’t paid.

Her cell phone played a broken chord. Seth had left her a message. She dug around in her backpack and came up with her wallet.

“My treat,” Finn said. “Consider it a little gift to welcome you home.”

This wasn’t home, but Evie didn’t say so. She thanked him and headed out the door. Just before it banged shut behind her, she shot a look over her shoulder.

He was leaning back, his arms folded, watching her and smiling. One of his front teeth was chipped. She absolutely did remember him.

She was glad she’d worn those jeans.

It was a few blocks from Sparkles Variety to her mother’s house. Evie was licking the last vanilla ice cream off the stick when the rich, sulfurous odor of low tide enveloped her. Many of the houses near the water had been spiffed up. One had been painted a surprisingly pleasant shade of pink and had barrels of purple and white pansies in front. Another had a brand-new front porch and incongruous double doors with fancy etched glass.

Her mother’s street, Neck Road, ran parallel to the water. Evie turned onto it, pausing to take in the first slice of water view between close-set houses. A little farther on, she gasped when she saw the house that she no longer thought of as her home.

Chapter Five

Her mother’s bungalow had looked run-down, sure, last time Evie was there, four months ago. But nothing like what she saw now. The cream-colored siding was tagged with bright blue graffiti, MKT75 in six-foot letters. Weeds in the front yard and driveway were knee-high. The only actual grass was sprouting from the roof gutter. The little garage, where Evie assumed her mother’s twelve-year-old silver Subaru was parked, listed away from the house.

The first wooden front step creaked as she stepped on it. The third felt dangerously punky with rot. The screens in the metal storm door were torn. Evie pulled the storm door open, found the right key on her key ring, unlocked the front door, and pushed inside.

A musty, sharp odor oozed out. Mold. Cigarettes. Sour milk? Eyes tearing, Evie dropped her backpack off the side of the steps and into the weeds. She took a gulp of air and held her breath, then covered her nose and mouth with the bottom of her fleece vest and ventured into the house.

The narrow entry hall was dark. She found the light switch and flipped it. Nothing. No wonder, she realized as she shaded her eyes from the outside light. No bulb.

Straight ahead she could make out the stairs up to the second-floor bedroom she and Ginger had shared. A narrow hallway led to a bathroom tucked under the stairs and beyond that, her parents’ bedroom.

Evie turned instead and entered the kitchen. She threaded her way around piles of newspapers and loaded paper bags and plastic garbage bags. The sink was overflowing with dishes, and the faucet was dripping. Evie reached over and turned it off. Pushed open the red-and-white gingham curtains that were gray and crusty with dust, and opened the windows. On the sill, a row of African violets were brown and withered.

She looked around in dismay. The little kitchen table where she and Ginger used to do their homework was adrift in papers and mail. The counters were stacked with boxes and cans. Cat food? Her mother didn’t even like cats, and yet there were dozens of empty cans of it.

A trio of small black moths fluttered in front of her. She clapped her hands and got one of them. At least a dozen more were resting on the ceiling, and when Evie opened the cabinet where her mother had always kept cereal and crackers, more flew out.

She poked a toe at one of the garbage bags on the floor. Glass clinked, and roaches skittered between the piles across the redbrick vinyl flooring.

Evie made her way through the rest of the house, trying not to feel overwhelmed. The living room was full of broken lawn furniture, orphaned lampshades, and ashtrays overflowing with cigarette butts. The brown vinyl-covered sectional sofa was buried under loads of rumpled clothing and bedding and newspapers. More books and magazines and newspapers were piled on the coffee table.

In the midst of the disarray was a large packing box with the SONY logo. That’s when Evie noticed a fancy new flat-screen TV hung on the wall where there’d always been a string sculpture of an owl mounted on mustard-colored burlap.

The only part of the living room that felt familiar was the fireplace and the mantel over it. Sitting there were framed photographs: Ginger and Ben at their wedding, Evie’s high school graduation picture, her dad. Evie picked that one up and wiped away a layer of dust. It was one of the few photographs that had survived the fire that nearly destroyed this house when she was six years old.

For an instant, Evie smelled smoke, even though she knew nothing was burning, and for a moment she saw herself standing across the street with Mom and Ginger, watching flames shoot from the roof of their house, knowing that Blackie and her litter of puppies were trapped in her parents’ bedroom closet.

She shook off the memory. Until yesterday, her mother had been living in this . . . squalor was the only word for it. She swallowed a lump in her throat. What on earth had happened? Her mother had never been a hoarder. Even at her worst, she’d cared about appearances. She’d always kept a neat house, and never went out without lipstick. Her grammar and table manners were impeccable. Something must have come unscrewed.

Returning to the kitchen, Evie opened the refrigerator, expecting the worst. But there turned out to be very little inside. On the top shelf sat a baking dish. She lifted the foil. Whatever was in it had shriveled and desiccated. She peered into a pink bakery box and poked at the remains of a mummified cake, its pink-and-white frosting hard to the touch. A half gallon of milk was dated four weeks ago. The veggie bin contained a plastic bag with a slimy head of lettuce in it and a bag of something that looked like prunes and smelled of rotten egg.

All of it had to go out. Now. Evie undid the twist on a half-full garbage bag already on the floor. A sharp medicinal smell rose from the open bag and she peered inside. Empty liquor bottles. She pulled one out. Vodka. Grey Goose. Her mother had moved up to an expensive brand.