Audrey Burhn was the school nurse at Owen Elementary where Emily went to school. Audrey, who lived alone, told the reporter, “I always thought this was a safe, wonderful neighborhood, except for the dogs. Some people raise their dogs mean.” Her husband had died five years ago of a heart attack, and her son lived in Michigan.

Mrs. Burhn said she came home after school to find her window screen ripped and the window pried up. The burglar(s) stole fifty dollars cash, tore apart her jewelry drawer, her drawer under the television, full of old videotapes, and some boxes in the basement. She hadn’t found anything missing besides the cash and a bracelet and a few rings of her mother’s, but, as she said, “When you get to be as old as me, it’s hard to remember what you have.”

No one witnessed the intruder, and Hunther police didn’t have any suspects.

Desiree? Wouldn’t they consider her a suspect?

A heavy thump from the other room. I ran toward it as Judy whined.

Please let her not to have fallen. Not on my watch. Let her fall for Paulina.

Judy was in her bed, thank God. She was moving her legs up, her knees tenting the blanket, and she was grasping for something.

No cigarettes for you, young lady. If she asked, I’d tell her she smoked the last one yesterday.

“What do you need? I’ll help you, honey.” I had never called Judy “honey.” She would not have liked that. It both comforted me and made me feel a bit nasty.

A Bible lay face-down on the floor, pages smashed. It had been on her bedside table yesterday. Paulina probably read it to her for comfort.

Judy howled and reached for her feet, but couldn’t catch them.

“Are your feet bothering you? Do you have pins and needles? Numbness?”

“Scratches.”

“They’re itchy?”

“Scratches.”

I scratched her ankles, shins, calves, and the tops of her feet. I didn’t mind. Her skin was cool and paper thin.

Her whiny howling shifted into cooing and purring. Her eyes closed, she stretched her thin lips into a smile, bringing a scab on her lip to its breaking point. A bead of bright blood cut through the scab.

I scratched gently; I didn’t want to leave her skin looking clawed. She had curvy lines of dirt and dead skin along her ankles, reminding me of soap scum buildup along the bathtub. Dead skin balled up under my nails, which didn’t bother me because I planned to scrub every inch of my body when I got home anyway. Once you committed to a filthy job, you committed.