“They said Dawn Young’s body traveled from Crooked River to the pond through retention pipes and got stuck in that storm drain.” I imagined a young girl’s pond-bloated face under a storm grate. Eyes puffy and piscine. Hair splayed in the water. Blood soaked into her dress and diluted a pinkish brown.

“It was a woman who’d gutted the girl,” she said. “But they could never pin it on her. The case went unsolved. Days before she killed Dawn, she’d killed her neighbor’s pet opossums. Creepy, huh?”

A memory flickered, sharp and abrupt like a gun’s safety clicked off. An image of a dead opossum in the grass, on its side, its fur matted, flies hovering in the heat. Under its back leg, something squirming. Oh God.

My stomach wrung itself.

“Lessons are going to start,” she said, glancing at her watch. “Would you like me to tell the front desk that Em is going to try a free lesson?” That she called Emily “Em” caught me off guard. It was too familiar.

“Emmy,” I said. “You want to try a lesson now with Miss Desiree?”

“Today?” Her whole face lit up.

“Yeah.”

“Yes. Yes. Yes.” She twirled on the platform, holding her arms out and splashing water.

I smiled at Desiree. “I guess it’s a yes.”

“You can sign the waiver when class starts. Should I sign her up as Emily Bishop?”

“Yes, we all use Bishop as our last name. Thanks.”

“Got it. Hey, you were born here too. What’s your maiden name?” Her eyes twinkling, her tone demanding—the Camaro’s brake and gas pedals held down simultaneously, revving the engine.

I’d cut contact with my family when I was seventeen. Changed my last name because I hadn’t wanted them to find me. I was used to keeping my birth name secret, but there was no point to it now. I was here to dig up the past.

This is why you insisted on coming.

“Hornne.”

“Hornne?” she said, her lips parted, her jaw dropping. “Like a goat has horns? Extra N, silent E?” Her gorgeous moonstone eyes widened.

“Yes,” I said, feeling like a spool of kite string unraveling quickly, the kite attached at the end taken by a sudden gust of wind. This is why you came.

The door opened, and a young guy shouted, “Hey, Dez. Kids are lining up.” As the door whooshed closed, a gust of cool air hit my chest. I held my breath.

Desiree rubbed her nose. “Melinda Hornne was your mom?”

“Yeah.”

“That’s wild,” she said.

“Why?”

“Why? I—You don’t know?” she said, laughing.

“No. What?”

Her face fell solemn. “You don’t know,” she said, mostly to herself, and licked her syrupy upper lip. “Dawn Young’s murder. Your mom was… Well. She did it.”

4

4

Well, fuck, I wasn’t expecting that.