“Duh,” she said. “I mean, it happened what, like thirty years ago, before the internet. It’s not like someone’s gonna backtrack and write up a story for the internet just so it exists there. And you know,” she said slowly, as if I were stupid, “when poor folks get murdered, it doesn’t always draw lots of attention.”

Her words were eerie, as if she were validating the insignificance of some murders. Like, if she didn’t even care about it and she lived here, who else would give a shit?

“I wasn’t expecting much from a Google search,” I said. “But the library doesn’t have much either.” Three articles, short and bland. “You said your dad’s a cop. Would you ask him for details?”

She laughed. “Oh, my gosh, I used to ask him about his cases when I was younger, and he would freeze. As an only parent, he needed to compartmentalize. Here I was, his daughter. And here was this violent stuff or these shady people he dealt with at work. He did not like the two to mix. I felt bad for him and stopped asking.” She licked her wet upper lip and squeezed the water out of her hair. With her arms up and back, God, even her armpit skin was soft and flawless. “Why not ask your mom this stuff?”

As Em bobbed under water, I said quickly, “She was murdered four months ago. Robbed in her home and stabbed to death.”

“Oh my God, Heather. I’m sorry.” Her voice straddled sincere and flippant, like next she might ask where I got my shoes.

“Did your dad or anyone else ever mention a motive or a connection between my mom and this girl?”

She wiped under each eye, making sure her eyeliner didn’t run, and said, “All I know is what everyone in town knows. Your mom was the last person seen with her. Dawn was at your mom’s house for a painting class and she needed a ride to work. Your mom drove her.”

This detail left me breathless.

I recalled splashes of paint—sunflower orange and seafoam blue—on the garage floor, softening the greasy car-oil stains. My mom taught oil painting classes out of our garage. The garage would be cluttered with card tables, easels, and metal folding chairs. She would fold and store them against the walls, dangerous booby traps for hyperactive clumsy kids.