These two reminded me of Trevor’s mom. Judy Bishop set out doilies for tea and always wore stockings under her dresses and conservative heels inside her own home. Sunday, all day, was for church. She’d never liked me.

The first time I’d met her, when she’d opened the door to greet Trevor and I, she’d been wringing her hands, her eyes too wide. I’d thought it was sweet that she was nervous.

When I went to sit on the sofa, she rushed ahead of me and grabbed the throw pillow, said, “I’ll get this out of your way.” She smiled too hard while she clutched it in her arms. “It’s my mother’s.”

She hadn’t been worried about making a good impression; she’d thought I was filthy.

It was puzzling, but I didn’t cling to it. We only saw her four or five times a year for a few hours. She’d asked about my family occasionally. I’d shut her down each time, told her my parents were alcoholics, I cut ties with them, and I didn’t like talking about my family. She stopped asking.

After I had Emily, she lightened up. When I fussed over Emily, I’d catch her smiling to herself. A real smile.

She let her guard down more each year. She’d be talking to Trevor on the phone and ask him to put me on. “Oh, Heather, dear. Could you make your potato casserole for Thanksgiving? I just love that.”

I’d figured she’d been wound too tight, but she got used to me because what else was there to do?

But had I had it all wrong?

Had Judy believed the town gossip? Had she thought my mother murdered a girl like Desiree said?

“Parents,” a young man in swim trunks called, his head peeking out of the glass pool room. “Come on in.”

I made sure I was the last parent in line. “Heya, sweet pea,” Desiree said to Emily. “Your momma’s here.”

“Hey,” I said, “I wanted to ask you a couple questions.”

Emily took that as a cue to keep swimming. She hopped off the edge, swam out a few feet, and paddled back.

“Shoot,” Desiree said, one eye on Emily as she lowered herself and tipped her head back, moving her fingers through her wet hair. Desiree’s authenticity was magnetic. She was comfortable in her skin. Of course it was easy to be comfortable in skin that happened to be gorgeous. “Be Yourself” was a mantra, a through line, of the physically attractive.

“I looked up Dawn Young’s murder,” I said. “Nothing came up online. Not a single thing.”