Every day, more people want to be my friend, more people want to follow me, and more people tell me how sorry they are about what happened to my mom. And every day, there are leads that quickly become dead ends.

Every day, strangers say they know who the Magpie Man is, but whenever I allow a message request, they ask for my number, ask what I’m wearing, ask me to send photos, and I’m back to square one.

Some comments accuse my dad, so I quickly scroll past those. Others mention random people, so I write a list and look for patterns. But the same name never comes up twice. And then there are the conspiracies—the ones that say she was having an affair and was killed by a dumped lover, the ones that say she’s still alive, the ones that say I did it.

It used to upset me, but it’s something I’ve grown up with—the idiots who think they’ve solved the crime.

I reread Ross’s message, check his social media one last time for any obvious psycho signs, then reply.

Thanks for contacting me. It’s good to hear from someone who knows how it feels. I’m sorry for your loss.

If he’s anything like me, he will hate that, but it’s what you say, even if you hate hearing it. The guidebook for talking to grieving people is short and full of crap, but until someone writes a better one, it’s all we’ve got.

I make myself some toast and do a slice for Dad, which may or may not be eaten by the time Nan comes over. Today, she will tidy the house and cook us dinner, and by next Tuesday, the place will be a shithole again.

I should notice before I open the front door, but I step out and close it behind me, then realize there are people standing there.

“Jessica,” one of them says, “can we ask you a few questions?”

The woman has a notepad and pen, and next to her, a man takes my picture.

“What sort of questions?” I ask.

“We love the show,” the woman says. “Do you think they’ll ever find the person who did it?”

When it happened, there were camera crews and reporters everywhere. They left us alone once they realized Dad was never leaving the house again and Nan told them all to get lost. It’s been a long time since anyone cared what was happening here.

“I hope so,” I say.

I can feel the photographer capturing my face from every possible angle.

“Has anyone been in contact yet?” the woman asks. “I’m Sara, by the way. I’d love to tell your story.”