Now walking back to my car, I peeked at the maroon car on the right. The driver, a very young blond man with sharp cheekbones, ate a sandwich. His car looked like a dump, with all those papers and clothes and newspapers swamping its seats. Even the car radio sounded fuzzy and out of tune, transmitting some weird talk show, as if several men were talking at once, describing their location and little observations: "12:15 Object One is in the parking lot," or "12:15 Object Ten stays at the office."

My sparkly clean Jag felt like a safe haven. Somehow, seeing other people's misery makes me appreciate what I have more. I drove back onto Main Street looking for Pike Road, finally spotted it and turned at the last moment. I found the number 2550 right away. It was especially easy, since several police cars were parked along the quiet street as a free attraction for a few local viewers.

Debbie shouldn't see me yet. That's why, getting ready in the morning, I put on my daughter's clothes: blue bellbottoms and a t-shirt with a yellow windbreaker. My red hair I hid under an NYU baseball cap. It was a decent outfit to become invisible in any crowd. The moment I approached Debbie's place, the entrance door opened, letting out two cops and a tall middle-aged man with cuffed hands. The man looked back at the house and smiled. He looked intelligent and handsome, and a little run down, like an old brick Georgian house.

"What's going on here?" I asked a woman in sweatpants and a t-shirt standing on the lawn.

"Her ex just got arrested for trespassing." She turned her head.

"Is it Debbie's ex?"

"Do you know her?" Ms. Sweatpants turned to me completely. Her gray and brown hair wildly went up in spirals.

Before I came up with a lie, the cops searching Debbie's ex's metallic Pathfinder popped its trunk and removed a long semi-automatic gun. They asked him for a gun permit; "In the glove compartment," he answered. After sorting through his papers, they found the permit. The police officers placed the gun in the trunk of the police cruiser and took off, leaving one behind to console Debbie.

"Do you know her?" Ms. Sweatpants poked my ribs with her elbow.

"Not really. I'm her new social worker. Just came down here from the district office to look at their place," I lied. "Do you know them?"

"They just moved in, you know. But we've already got some questions. You wanna hear this? By the way, I'm Meg. I work as a nurse at a local preschool. Wanna have a cup of coffee at my place? This is my house, just in front of us." Talking, she looked like a beaver with her protruding front teeth.

Her tiny kitchen was furnished with outdated but clean drawers and shelves and stuffed with craft items: heavy clay mugs, animal figurines, blue glass bottles of every shape and size, and glass pictures. Meg poured us a little coffee, talking non-stop.

Debbie and the kids had moved in a year ago. The house she stayed in was a rental, so lots of people lived there over time. Meg never knew them and tried to do her best to stay away.

"Interest rates are so low, everybody buys a house now. Who rents? Just young people and troubled families… Single mothers, like her."

She, herself, had a husband and was very proud of the fact, judging by a dozen shots of her and some bald guy stuck to the fridge door. Noticing me staring at the pictures, she said she was the only married woman at her daycare center.

"It's easy to get married," she said happily. "The trick is to keep your husband."

I couldn't agree with her more. I never managed this trick and saw Alexander as my last matrimonial endeavor.