A ceiling fan spiraled slowly. Warm air wafted around the room, smelling of donut batter and refrigeration. My mind went to carnivals, the air sultry with the scent of funnel cakes. Crisp deep-fried dough, sizzling peanut oil, a huff of powdered sugar.

You could eat at the long counter. There were a dozen tall chairs. There were a dozen tables on the floor, five red pleather booths, and windows open along the walls. Cute. Four booths spilled over with teenage bodies. Maybe that’s why Sawyer hadn’t wanted to come in. Maybe he’d spotted the teenagers from our car. The teenage girl working the counter wore a T-shirt and tan uniform shorts, her long hair in a messy ponytail. I ordered Emily a sundae, me and Sawyer donuts, and I paid.

I got Emily situated in a chair at the far end of the counter. “I’ll be right back, Em. I need to ask the waitress a question. Enjoy your sundae.”

“Excuse me,” I said to the waitress. Her back to me, she was making coffee. “I have a weird question for you.”

She turned. Her expression dull, her movements slow.

“I am looking into an old crime, before your time, the murder of Dawn Young. She worked here. Have you heard of her?”

No recognition in her eyes, no change of expression on her face. “Hang on a sec,” she said, and pushed through a swinging door to the kitchen.

Goosebumps popped on my neck. It was noisy in here with chatter. Good, Emily couldn’t hear me. I waved at her, and she waved back.

A different woman came out of the swinging door. Older, salt and pepper hair down past her shoulders. Clumpy black mascara and red lipstick that bled beyond her lip line. Wrinkles around her lips like a starburst. She leaned forward on her elbows, and her cleavage thickened from her black T-shirt.

“I’m Marjory. Are you a reporter?” She was loud and unapologetic. This was what Desiree would be like at seventy-five.

Another wave of goosebumps raced along my skin. I actually shivered. I hadn’t expected that I’d speak with the owner.

Marjory had probably seen a lot. Best to go with the truth. “No, I’m not a reporter. I found out last week that my mom was a suspect in Dawn Young’s murder. I was—I am, shocked by the news. I was only six years old when it happened. I heard Dawn never made it to her shift that night. Can you tell me about it?”

“Dawn worked for me, yeah. She was a sweetheart,” she said, but didn’t smile.

“Did you know my mom?”