Holly gulped her coffee. “The police responded like you did. They thought I was crazy.” Her mouth twitched into a frown. “I just wish I’d asked Mom about what happened back then. I was little when we moved away from Hunther, and I never brought it up because it, well, it was such a painful time for Mom. It was like bam, bam, one thing after the next. Dawn died, Mom was gone for four or five weeks, she came back, then Becky died. I don’t recall much about Mom being gone. Just that Dad farmed us all out. I stayed with Chrissy’s family. Shane stayed with Kirk, his friend from baseball. Rodney stayed with Dad. You went to someone’s house too, though I’m not sure where you went.”

I was with Mom. And Claire and Donnie. At the head doctor’s house.

Even if I didn’t remember being with Mom, even if I barely remembered the girl and boy, I was happy to hold a puzzle piece.

Holly said, “Becky stayed with Gal and Gary Kender. You know, our next-door neighbors?”

I remembered their names and their presence next door. And their pool.

Holly said, “Mom was happy my entire childhood, until she went away for those four or five weeks. After she came back, she was different.”

Because Mom had confessed to killing Dawn Young.

I studied the letter again. Sin was written easily, in carefree cursive, the same way you’d write your name. But who would name their kid Sin? I was aware people got creative with naming their children these days, but Sin was unpleasant. Like naming your kid Vlad the Impaler. It could be short for something. Sina. Sinead.

That was the logical explanation, but my conversation with Father Greg wouldn’t let me go. I kept thinking “Sin” as in an evil act.

“Holly?” her husband called, more desperately.

“Coming,” she shouted. To me, she said, “Heather. You have to go ask Gal and Gary about Mom. I can’t do it. I’m in a bind here. Ever since we got here.” She whispered roughly, “The first week we were here, Bruce had his stroke. He can talk now, but hasn’t got most of his vision back, and walking isn’t easy. He has been saying, joking, ‘If I die, then you’ll be able to pay the bills.’” She stopped abruptly; eyes watery. “He loved being physically strong. It’s superficial, strength, but he loved being able to fix things around the house. It kills him to be the weak one. It kills him that I have to help him stand so he can wipe his ass,” she hissed at me, angry, as if something about this situation were my fault.

“Holly?” he said, whining.

“Here I come,” she called.

She flipped the empty envelope, wrote something, and shoved it in my face.

It was an address.

“What’s this?”