FOURTEEN

FOURTEEN

"OH, THE MANDALORIAN! I love that guy!" I drop a couple of "fun-size" candy bars into Ethan's pillowcase and wave to his parents, Greta and Tyler, standing on the sidewalk.

Ethan, in that Star Wars costume, is only five. I remember vividly when both Grace and Lincoln were that age, when I stood on those sidewalks watching them shuffle up walkways asking homeowners for candy, when my kids wouldn't dream of doing anything without their mommy or daddy nearby. And now Lincoln, after begging and pleading, has gone trick-or-treating without me.

All for the best, Chill Mom tells me. You don't want to raise a mama's boy .

The sun has long set. The trick-or-treaters are dwindling now, our bowl of candy less than half full.

I check my phone. "Ten after seven," I say. "Lincoln said he'd be home by seven."

"Lemme call him." David looks at his phone, digs up the number for Lincoln's Gizmo Watch as I walk into the kitchen to check on the chili in the pot.

We both hear the buzzing in the kitchen drawer. David, phone against his ear, walks over and pulls open the drawer. He punches out his phone. "Gizmo Watch is in the drawer."

So we have no way of contacting Lincoln. "He said he'd wear it."

"I should've double-checked." David turns to me. "I'm sure it's fine. He's out with Will."

I stir the chili. Take note of the bottle of green Tabasco sauce on the counter. David always sneaks some of that in when I'm not looking.

"Somebody could've done all these things that have been happening," I say. "Our alarm wasn't set. They could've walked in, moved around Grace's lunch box and the coffeepot, maybe gone into the garage and moved my court ID onto the dashboard."

"I know, but that's crazy."

"Maybe it is," I say, "but it's less crazy than any other explanation. Nobody's been hurt, right? It's all ultimately harmless. They move around the lunch box and coffeepot. They take Lulu but bring her back. They start a fire but only in our grill to contain it. They break into our house but don't take anything."

"Just for kicks? Like you said, ultimately harmless." David comes over and rubs my shoulders. This isn't bothering him as much as as it's bothering me.

I wiggle away from his touch. "But that's the thing. Whoever it is — he's risking criminal charges. He's broken into our house twice . Just to do harmless stuff ? Just having fun? Someone who wants to have fun wouldn't take that kind of risk. It's as if … they're messing with us, David. Trying to send us a message or something."

I walk over to the front door and look out. On the street, Grace says goodbye to her three friends, Monica, Ellie, and Rainey — a ladybug, Rey from Star Wars, and a waitress from a 1950s diner, respectively — and bounds up the walkway to the door.

Still no Lincoln.

"Well, good evening, Your Honor!" I say to my daughter, in her black robe and lace collar, the Notorious RBG.

"Yeah," she says in her typical understated way.

We are raising a very serious girl, apparently. David thinks it comes from me.

"Food's ready. Veggie chili and salad. Did you see Lincoln out there?"

"No. Lincoln's not home yet?"

"Not yet. Wash your hands, honey."

"Can I lay out the candy?" She holds up a swollen pillowcase. She and Lincoln will set out their candy and make trades.

"Hey, there she is, the Notorious RBG!" David kisses Grace on the forehead. "Or am I supposed to bow to you?"

Grace holds out her hand. "Bow to me, good sir," she says with a British accent. And of course, David complies in grand fashion. David can bring out the playful in Grace in a way that I can't.

"Seven twenty," I say to him as Grace races into the family room to lay out her candy.

David nods. "Maybe he went to Will's house."

"That wasn't the plan."

"I know, but it's Halloween. Maybe — maybe I should call over there."

I let out a nervous sigh. "I wouldn't — it's just that with all this weird stuff, y'know."

"I know. I'll go out and look for him. And I'll call Will's house on the way."

"Good. That would be good."

Then I hear that squeaky prepubescent voice. I almost jump as the door pops open, cool air rushing in, and there's my miniature Chicago Bears quarterback, beaming.

"Hey, it's Justin Fields!" David says, putting his hand on my shoulder, preempting me, trying to defuse the tension. He doesn't want me to bark at Lincoln, doesn't want him seeing our nerves. He's right about that, I guess. Lincoln was just a little late. And he didn't have his Gizmo Watch. He lost track of time. He's not used to keeping track of time.

So I just muss his hair and watch him and David head into the family room, recounting where he and Will went, the "huge candy bars" the Lindermans gave out, the smoke machine the Wrights had on their lawn, and I breathe an enormous sigh of relief.

"Let the trade talks begin!" David announces. I'm in the kitchen now, getting the chili ready to be served, warming milk for the hot cocoa after dinner. Grace will eat anything with honey and hates vanilla. Lincoln likes nuts and caramel the most.

"— biggest candy bar I've ever seen —"

"— looks like a special treat —"

"— I should get two small bars for this one —"

"— no way —"

"What's this? That's more like a gift —"

"Can you open it?"

I look through the kitchen into the family room. David is trying to unwrap a small purple bag tied with a bow, while Lincoln predicts it's "probably something chocolate —"

"Oh, my God!" David drops the open bag, then puts out his arm. "Stay — back up, back up, back up, get away!"

"What?" I rush into the family room as both kids get to their feet.

David turns the bag over, the contents falling out.

A … mouse. Not a fake one, not plastic or rubber — a real one. A little shriveled gray rodent with its tail wrapped around it. Not moving. Dead.

"What the —" David looks up at me.

"That's so cool!" says Lincoln. "A mouse!"

Somebody gave Lincoln a dead mouse ?

"That's not a mouse," says Grace. "Look at the tail."

I get up close for a better look. She's right. It's not a mouse.

It's a rat.