The Rules of Survival by Nancy Werlin

name—I groped for it—of the woman who lived in the first-floor condo. Julie Lindemann. That was it. I knew her car, too—that was it over there, across the street, a new white Beetle convertible. Its presence meant she hadn’t left for work yet. She and Murdoch had some joke about how she was a big gas-waster because she could take the bus to work but never did.
    I sat down on the stoop of Murdoch’s house, which was also the stoop of Julie’s house, and waited, and after about half an hour, Julie let herself out of the door right next to me. I stood up and said her name, and she jumped about two feet in the air, dropping her keys.
    “Oh my God, you scared me!”
    “I’m sorry. I’m Matthew Walsh. Do you remember me? I’m a friend of Murdoch’s.”
    I saw that she did remember me. Her eyes looked a little wary, though, and I wondered if Murdoch had said anything to her about us, about our mother. She bent down to pick up her keys, but I got to them first and handed them to her.
    “Thanks,” she said.
    I nodded toward Murdoch’s wrecked truck. “What happened?”
    “I don’t know,” Julie said. But I could tell that she wasn’t shocked to see the smashed windows. I could tell from her expression as she glanced at the truck that she’d already seen them—maybe even last night, when it happened. Her front window was only twenty feet from where the truck was parked. She might have seen the whole thing. If she’d been home, she must have heard it. That whole end of the street must have heard it.
    “Please,” I said. “I’m looking for Murdoch. I have to talk to him. It’s important. It’s about—it’s about that.” I nodded toward the car again. “Do you know where he’s working these days? Do you know where I can find him?”
    “No, sorry,” Julie said. “I can’t help you.”
    But she blushed as she spoke, and didn’t look at me, and I didn’t believe her.
    “I have to go to work now,” she said. She headed for her car. I kept even with her.
    “Please,” I said again. “I have to talk to him.”
    “I’m sorry,” she said. “I have to go now.” She opened her car door and got in, and I had to stand back. I moved to the sidewalk and watched her pull out of her space, and then, just before she drove off, I saw her take out her cell phone. And I’m not the slightest bit psychic, but sometimes you know things, and I knew she was calling Murdoch to tell him about me.
    Still, I didn’t expect what happened a minute later. I didn’t expect Julie’s front door to open again, or for Murdoch to come out through it. He was holding his own cell phone.
    “Matt,” he said wearily. I stared up at him as he stood on the stoop of Julie’s house.
    “Hi,” I said. And then, in horror, I felt that I was exactly one second from tears. And it wasn’t about Nikki or Rob or the black eye that I could see Murdoch had, or the brace on his left wrist. It was, instead, about Julie, his neighbor.
    Nikki had been replaced.
    We had all been replaced.

25
     
    MURDOCH’S DEMONS
     
    I didn’t cry. Instead I said, “Are you all right?”
    Murdoch nodded. “Yes.” He looked at me for a bit. Finally he said, “Come on in, Matt. We’ll talk.” He closed Julie’s door, checked it to make sure it was locked, and turned to his own front door next to it. I followed him into his territory, familiar with it, but painfully aware that I didn’t belong there in his house, not anymore. But the smashed truck windows, and Murdoch’s black and blue eye, and the brace he was wearing on his left wrist kept me anchored in the moment. There were things that had to be said.
    I sat down at Murdoch’s kitchen table when he invited me to. I watched him measure coffee into the coffeemaker, fill it with water, and press the Start button. Then he turned, his back against the counter, and looked at me again. “What’s up?” he said.
    “I’m sorry,” I said. For a bare second, I glanced at his face, his wrist.