She put a mini ceramic pitcher filled with cream on the table along with a two-pound bag of sugar. She sat across from me, spooned sugar into her coffee, and sighed like life was a huge pain in the ass. “So your husband’s from here too? What are the odds of that?” she said, lifting her eyebrows.

Not that rare. We met in Chicago, which is only a couple hours from Hunther. I had to admit though, once I found out he was from Hunther, it made him seem a bit magical. I hadn’t remembered my early childhood in Hunther—it had a fuzzy, fairytale quality in my mind, more of the Grimms’ version, shadowy and gruesome—and I’d wondered if Trevor could shed light on it. If he’d heard of one of my sisters or brothers. No, he’d said he’d never known them. He was Rodney’s age, but didn’t remember Rodney. I wasn’t surprised. Rodney was brooding and cruel in my memory. A loner. If Rodney had a crowd at all, it would have been the rough one. Trevor had said Rodney must have gone to the other high school, Hunther South.

Holly’s implication was marinated in suspicion. Which was odd because how would that plot go? Trevor knew my parents were alcoholics, found me in Chicago so he could… love me and make me feel safe? Ooh, that’s one devious motherfucker.

Then again, everything out of her mouth was whet with suspicion. Understandable. You cut ties with the family, haven’t seen her for twenty years, and now here you are, visiting her house for the second time in forty-eight hours. She had twenty years of suspicion stored up inside, earning interest.

“Hunther’s small, but it’s not that small,” I said. “And, the older I get, the more often I find myself saying ‘small world.’”

“Hm,” she said and sipped her coffee. “Do you work?”

I nodded. “I do blood draws at a testing center in Chicago. I’m not working while we’re here. My manager, well, we get along, and my job is waiting for me. I miss it.”

I did. I missed the routine of knowing exactly what I was supposed to do with my time. I missed the clean, harsh smell of isopropanol, the stretch of rubber band around flesh, touching a stranger’s skin, and the precision and fine tip of a needle.

“Cream or sugar?” she said, pointing to the pitcher and sugar bag on the table.

“I’m good.” I sipped. “The rumor about Mom killing Dawn Young, it was all news to me. But, you knew? When we lived here, you knew?”

“Vaguely. I mean, I was eleven. I guess I’d always assumed they were questioning her because she drove Dawn to work. I assumed there’d been a misunderstanding.”

“Did you know Dawn?” I wasn’t sure why I was asking.