“We heard they got a baby. We wanted to peek at the menagerie. The new one is precious. Two harsh markings above her eyes like she’s a killer, but she’s the sweetest thing.”

My nerves sighed, at ease that she wasn’t here for me.

The male in the passenger seat laughed at something, his laugh like a series of slow hiccups. High. He’s high. It was the skater-haircut who worked at Aldi’s. Both males in the front seats were young, twenty, twenty-one.

“There was another break-in the other day,” I said, my tone calm and sleepy. My nerves were shot from my conversation with Gal. I was zapped of energy. “Was that you?”

“What?” She was a good liar, but I already knew that.

“What were you looking for? I’m so curious.”

She smiled and moved close to me. In my space. “Heather,” she said, her lips glossy and sultry. “Come party with us. It will be fun.” She placed her hand under my waistband at my hip. “I miss talking with you. You are so, so easy.” Her voice was husky, but there was something childlike there too. Her hand skated around to my front. Her fingertips slid down below the waist of my pants, her nails touching my underwear. She took hold of my waistband and gave it a tug.

I could have pushed her away. I tipped my mouth near her ear and whispered, “Is it jewelry? What are you stealing?”

Her hand dropped away from my skin, her playfulness gone. She laughed a little. “You don’t seem like you’d be, but you are persistent.”

“Did my mom know your mom?”

“I don’t think so. I don’t know much about my mom.” She glanced down at the tattoo on the inside of her wrist. “Other than she liked to draw. As a kid, I found all these sketches of hers.”

Just like Dawn. “Did your mom know Dawn?”

“Probably not. My mom was five or six years older than Dawn, so they would have missed each other in high school. Also, Dawn was here in Hunther for only a few months before she was murdered. Transient. No roots. Almost like she never existed.” She took a few steps back. She was done talking to me. “Your mom’s dead. What’s it matter?”

What did it matter? I’d picked at this scab over and over. I was familiar with its bumpy, snagged edges and with the blood oozing out from underneath.

“I never liked my mom,” I said. “Didn’t care much for my siblings either. I thought they were toxic.” It was a popular term now—toxic. Trendy even. It wasn’t then. “Now I hear they’re involved in a murder, maybe satanic stuff.” I shook my head. It still sounded crazy. “I need to know if I’m right. That they were toxic. That I wasn’t imagining it.”