He nodded, didn’t bother standing up. His skin was deeply tan, his face creased with wrinkles. He had a good head of hair, only beginning to gray, that made him look youthful.

He held a beer can in a red insulator, words written on it, some logo I couldn’t make out. He wore jeans and a Brewers shirt. His fingers were stained red. So was the white T-shirt bunched up on the ground beside him.

“Sorry to bother you. I’m Heather Hornne.” I paused, as if lightning might strike me down. Keep saying that last name, it just might. “I’m wondering if you can answer some questions about my mom… being… well.” I shook my head. Even saying it, I felt like a traitor. I wasn’t fond of my mom, but I had never accused her of violent crimes. I took a deep breath. “I heard my mother was a suspect in the murder—”

“Dawn Young,” he cut in. “Yeah, I remember it.”

Trailers away, a woman hollered. I couldn’t make out the words, but it had that tone of an exhausted mother scolding her child for making a mess. Nearer, a screen opened, the spring creaking.

“We’ve had our share of murder over the years,” he said. “Even if we can’t prove it, even if we don’t close a case, we usually have an idea about who might have done it. The Young case was different.” He motioned to the picnic table a dozen feet away from him, shared with the neighboring trailer. “Have a seat.” He didn’t blink enough. It was unnerving.

I sat on the bench. “I never heard about it as a kid. Not a word. That’s crazy, don’t you think?”

He shrugged. “I never told my kids even half the stuff I did. Do you have kids?”

“Yes.”

“If someone accused you of murder, whether you did it or not, would you tell your kid if you didn’t have to?”

“No.”

He raised his eyebrow, point made. He picked up a grill fork from the dirt, speared the fish, and flipped it. Fat splattered and sizzled. It smelled good. I was easing into the idea of fish and beer for breakfast.

Though I wondered if Crooked River was as clean as it looked, or if some local factory was dumping lead into the river while paying off a village councilman.

“Your mom was the last person who saw her. Your mom drove Dawn to her waitressing job at Marjory’s Greasy Spoon. We were looking into everyone, lots of boys and young men visited Dawn at work, but, well, just weeks after it happened, your mom’s doctor said she confessed to it. He recorded the conversation. It was damning.”

We lived minutes from Marjory’s restaurant. We’d passed it on the way to our house the first day we’d moved in. The familiarity made the past feel accessible.