There’s probably a minute or two lapse in the story where no one remembers how it happened, but the story picks up when McClane Kender, nineteen years old at the time, noticed me face-down, lying at the bottom of the pool. McClane had an intellectual disability. He’d been shuffling along the outside of the pool, saving struggling water-logged houseflies, and mumbling the word Skyscraper over and over.

When he saw me lifeless at the bottom, he’d shouted, “Fire, fire, fire!” and flopped over the hot metal edge, splashing clumsily into the water.

Always shout Fire when you need help, Gal had taught her son. “It’s the only word that will always get people to come running. Help, for some reason,” she’d said, “in this godforsaken world, doesn’t work.”

Gal Kender, who was as drunk as my parents, easily pulled my small body from McClane’s hands. She laid me down in the grass and breathed and compressed me back to life. She wasn’t a nurse—she worked at the post office—but knew CPR. It happened so quickly, no one bothered to call 911. Becky wrapped a towel around my shoulders and sat beside me in the grass.

What stood out most was my parents’ reaction. My dad, buzzed and apathetic in his chair, eyes glazed and sleepy, took another sip from his beer can.

My mom, her face flush with alcohol and anger, stood. “Goddamn,” she said, her teeth clenched, “it is always something.” She marched back to our house and slammed the door behind her.

*  *  *

I rang the Kenders’ doorbell, waited a half minute, and rang it again. I was getting good at being a pest.

A woman opened the door. She was dressed nicely, wearing flats, like she had just come home from lunch with her group of ladies. Her wrinkles were of the deep variety associated with years of smoking or terrible genetics. Her thin lips fell at the corners in a scowl.

I forced a salesman smile. “Mrs. Kender?”

“Yes.” Curt. She didn’t want to buy whatever I was selling.

“I’m not sure if you remember me. I’m Heather Hornne. My older sister Becky was friends with your daughters.”

“Melinda Hornne had five children,” she said, nodding, “Heather? Oh, you were the baby.” She tried to make it sound cute, but her eyes squinted and distain seeped through. Like, aw, I betcha you were spoiled.

“Yep, I’m the baby.” I shifted my weight. “Can you tell me anything about why my mom was a suspect in the murder of Dawn Young?” Before she could ask, I said, “My mom is dead so I can’t ask her about it.”