I have to know.

Dropping my keys in my bag, I cross the weedy lawn.

The house shows all its age and neglect: peeling paint, even a cracked window kept from shattering by two-by-fours. I might think it was abandoned if it weren’t for the truck pulled up beneath a plastic carport.

Before I can even make it to the door, it opens, and there she is. Cora Allen. Or rather, some rotted version of her, scabby and grayscale. Only her eyes are the same: big and brown and thoughtful.

“Abby Williams,” she says, before I can even lift a hand. “I heard you were back.” She scratches at her stomach beneath her T-shirt. “Been expecting you to find me.”

“Hi, Cora.”

She turns around and disappears inside again, and for a second I stand there, confused about whether she means for me to follow. But then she leans out the door to gesture me after her. “Well, come on in. Let’s get this over with.”

I follow her inside, which is hazy with old cigarette smoke. The kitchen counter is cluttered with empty beer bottles and before she sits, she grabs a new one from the fridge. This isn’t fun day drinking. This is something much darker. I have a quick look at the inside of her refrigerator: water, beer, orange juice, and a shriveled round of cheddar.

We take a seat in the main room, and she switches off the TV. She pops the beer against the coffee table edge, which is scored from hundreds of previous beers. She won’t stop scratching, either. Misha wasn’t lying. She’s a drug addict. It’s painfully obvious.

“So? What is it you want to know?”

I’m more and more puzzled by the minute. “It seems like you’re the one with something to tell me?”

“You’ve been asking around about Kaycee Mitchell, huh?” She takes a swig of her beer. “What did all the others tell you?”

“Nothing. And all the same exact thing. That they haven’t heard from her in years. That she was a liar. That they were glad to see her go.” Cora flinches, just for a second. “How about you?”

For a second, Cora says nothing. We stare at each other until I have to look away.

“No. She scared me sometimes. But no.” She takes a long sip of her beer. “We let her down, all of us. She was sick, you know,” she goes on. Then, in response to my look of surprise, “Sick in the head. Her dad used to be too fond of her, if you know what I mean.”

Suddenly my stomach drops. I remember Kaycee in fourth grade, proudly showing off tubes of mascara and lipstick, tucked at the bottom of her backpack. My daddy gave them to me, she told me. He says I’m a big girl now so why not?

I think of Kaycee, heating up a silver Zippo lighter, shocking my skin with the burn of steel. You know it’s love because it starts to hurt. I was too young to understand.