The ancient floral wallpaper provided a perfect backdrop for the Henderson twins, a pair of precocious six-year-olds who lived upstairs with their struggling-for-custody dad. They walked by with a shoebox in their hands, decked out from head to toe in a mismatch of dark colors—none of which were technically black, but they gave a funereal impression all the same. “Oh, dear,” Fiona murmured. She caught Mr. Henderson’s eye as he held up a pair of iPod speakers, setting the tone with a somber Beethoven tune. He shrugged. “Has there been a death in the family?” she asked. One of the twins, who wore a tutu around her head as a veil, sniffled. “It’s our goldfish, Dora. He’s dead.” Fiona bent to the girls’ level. “I’m so sorry to hear that. I’m sure he was a very lovely pet.” “We’re taking him out back. Daddy says he’ll be fersti-lizard now.”
