It was already 8 p.m. when Eliot got home, a baguette and almond croissants from the corner bakery in hand—warm oil seeped through the edges of the paper bag. The apartment was filled with the aroma of stew. Scarlett was in the kitchen, wearing an apron, her hair tied up casually, a few stray strands sticking to the damp skin of her neck. The scene was so ordinary and warm that it struck him with a sharp sense of unreality.
“Like a castle,” he said, starting to sort through the building blocks. Louise reached out from his arms to help, her hair brushing against his chin, carrying the clean, sweet scent unique to young children.
“Daddy,” she asked suddenly, “is Uncle from the Woods a bad guy?”
Eliot’s hands froze. “Why do you ask that?”
“Mommy said he’s an old friend of hers. He did bad
