It doesn’t really surprise me that someone recognized Mom. During the frenzy of the vampire reveal, people searched for anything that might have been an attack. Someone found a news report of her death and latched onto it as possible evidence of vampire violence. So plenty of people believe what really happened to her and know the police just wanted to cover it up to avoid mass panic, but Mom didn’t go by the last name Perry. This is the only comment that connects her to Dad, and it’s haunted me for years. What if the vampire attack wasn’t random? What if Mom knew there were vampires before one killed her?

I just don’t want to believe she’d keep that from me. But we were always moving, and Mom said it was so she could find fresh audiences. She was still a performer, but she only did birthday parties and private gatherings. When I think back, I wonder if we were running.

But I know a vampire didn’t kill Dad. The details of his death are easy to find: stabbed three times in the chest. That sounds like an evil person, not an evil monster.

I replay the video one more time and focus on the butterflies—too many to count.

My mind wants to wander to a place I haven’t let it go in a long, long time, because it’s a fantasy world meant for children. It doesn’t make sense. But that trick made no sense, so here I am dreaming of the impossible again.

I reach under my bed and pull out a worn red shoebox. It’s not anywhere near as pretty as the pink one full of treasures that Mom kept. I always used to pull hers out from under her bed and dig through it. It was full of journals—some brand-new with crisp white pages, some so old-looking that the pages were eroding at the edges and the ink was browning, but Mom’s big looping letters covered all of them. And then there were the pictures of Mom on all kinds of stages: sometimes holding a top hat, sometimes in a sequined dress fanning a deck of cards, sometimes with her head and feet sticking out of a box that seemed to be cut in two. Some were in vivid color, and some were sepia or black-and-white—probably promo shots for vintage-style advertisements. Those were my favorite, but I loved every single one of them. I loved imagining Mom as the magnificent stage magician with her wide smiles instead of the tired ones she had when performing at children’s parties. Because before Dad, Mom performed with a troupe of magicians and carnival performers. She actually talked about her time performing with them more than she talked about Dad.