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I saw the blood. Holly had cleaned, but in the far corner the tile streaked from pink to red, blood collecting where the floor met the wall. I pulled a sponge and bleach out from underneath the cabinet, splashed the chemicals directly on the floor, and scrubbed the stains until they were gone. I washed my hands, my fingers red and burning, and rubbed them with vanilla body balm, the lotion masking rather than removing the smell. I changed into my nightgown and returned to Kevin’s and my bed, where I found Lucy curled up, blankets pulled snug despite the heat. I slept through the night, waking only once when Lucy grabbed my hand in her sleep and held on tight.
    T WO DAYS LATER , Ernie and I were back in the attic on babysitting duty. Outside, the temperatures had started to fall, but Dr. Ginthner’s attic trapped all the heat between the bound volumes on Marxist theory and Spanish Civil War poetry.
    â€œHow’s Kevin doing?” Ernie asked. “He home from the hospital?”
    I scanned the street, searching for approaching cars. “He’s home. It was nothing. Just a nosebleed.”
    â€œStill, that was pretty scary—­”
    â€œSilver Honda, a block to our south, Ernie,” I said. “Ouyang and Van have returned.”
    Three hours before, Ouyang had arrived at the house accompanied by two men. The first man, based on the description, was David Simmons, his linen shirt and pants giving him the look of someone who’d just stepped off a plane from the tropics. From this distance I could see the resemblance with Taylor, the two having the same black hair and angular jaws.
    Ernie pulled out a camera as the second man exited the car.
    â€œThat guy! He’s Hu!” Ernie said, snapping pictures of the man, trying to catch him at every angle. I agreed with Ernie. Cloaked in a black trench coat, the man we’d identified as Hu had quiet authority, moving quickly despite his bulk, pointing Ouyang and Simmons inside as he talked on his phone. The three men emerged from the house fifteen minutes later carrying heavy blankets and bags, dropping them into the trunk. They drove in the direction of the highway, and I watched as an agent in a blue Chevy pulled out behind them as they passed, keeping close.
    There were four cars set up to tail the men, ready to catch them no matter which way the car turned, and I listened as the agents radioed in their location. An informant in the Saigon Death Squad had told us the gang was expecting Hu and company to boost another shipping container today, so we’d expected the three men to head in the direction of the port where their stolen counterfeit goods were waiting for pickup. Instead, the Honda wove its way down from the Oakland hills into the flat landscape of downtown, pulling into the driveway of a small Victorian that shuddered under the shadow of Interstate 880.
    â€œIs that house lavender?” I heard one of the agents say. “What a way to bring down the property values in the neighborhood.”
    â€œIt’s surrounded by empty lots,” a second said. “It is the neighborhood.”
    â€œFolks, the cargo container is being loaded onto a truck as we speak,” I heard. “Are you sure Hu and company aren’t coming to the port?”
    â€œDo we even have confirmation that Hu was the third guy?” another agent asked and I thought he made a good point. The body type matched, but who knows whether the man with Ouyang and Simmons was in fact our target. He certainly seemed in no hurry to get to the port.
    I let the radio chatter wash over me, listening for the moment when Ernie and I would take Taylor into protective custody. The teenager had proven he could take care of himself over the last month, but that didn’t mean he should. Child protective ser­vices and a social worker were on standby, ready to step in once arrests were made. From our attic vantage I could see Taylor’s bedroom, one