She hangs up.

The kitchen is silent in a bad, expectant way.

“Oh, Kit,” Mom says. Now she does look to Dad, the way she does when she’s silently saying, Be ready: we need to parent.

“Mom?”

Mom walks over to the table. She looks to Kit and says:

“Tammy Jones was killed.”

“What?”

“What are you talking about?” Dad says.

Kit stands up. Like she might do something about this news. This unfathomable news.

“Sit down,” Mom says. Not a demand. More like Kit’s going to need to be seated for the rest.

“That was Helen.” Mom’s closest friend in Samhattan. Helen Martin. “She said Tammy Jones was found dead in her bedroom. Her…”

“Her what?” Kit asks. “Mom. What?”

She thinks of her journal. Thinks she’s just writing this down. Whatever this is, it can’t be anything more than that.

“There was trauma to her face. To her head.”

But it is more than that.

“I don’t understand,” Kit says. “Trauma?”

Mom looks to Dad. But Dad is as stunned as his daughter.

“Her head and face,” Mom says. “Oh, Kit.”

“Mom! What happened to Tammy?”

“Hang on,” Dad says. He stands up too. “Are you saying…someone hurt her?”

“Killed,” Mom repeats. “That’s what Helen said. That’s the word she used.”

“Evelyn,” Dad says. But it’s not like using her first name is going to make sense of what she’s saying.

Killed. Tammy Jones. A freshman-to-be at Samhattan High.

Kit feels dizzy. Weak.

Already Tammy Jones is (was) one of the better players on the Samhattan basketball team. Kit and Tammy weren’t close, but Kit respected the hell out of her game.

“Oh my God,” Kit says. “But she’s so…young.”

Then she does sit down. Because if she doesn’t, she might fall.

“What else did she say?” Dad asks.

At first, Kit thinks he’s asking what else did Natasha say.

“She didn’t know much,” Mom says. “Just…Okay. Helen said Tammy’s parents believe someone snuck in through her bedroom window. Someone broke in somehow.” She’s holding back tears. Tears for Tammy, tears for Kit. But Mom is tough like that too. Then, to Kit, she says, “I imagine you want to talk to your friends.”

Mom is hip, yes. She speaks the language of youth, of her daughter.

Kit gets up again, looks for her phone. It’s on the table in the living room.

She feels dizzy again.

“Mom…did Helen mention a name…Daphne?”

She didn’t mean to ask it. It just came out.

“No,” Mom says. “What do you mean? Do you know something about this?”

“No,” Kit says.

“Daphne?” Dad asks. And he has a look in his eye, Kit thinks. Probably how she looked when Natasha said it the other night. Did Dad think of a local legend (le-gend) when he spoke her name?

“Hey, don’t fuck around, Kit,” Mom says. Not with anger. With practicality. If Kit knows something, say something.

“Honestly, no.”

“Why’d you ask that, then?”

“Because,” Kit says. But her voice doesn’t sound entirely like her own. And the heat at the bottom of her neck is spreading up to the base of her skull. “Natasha told us a story…oh who the fuck cares.”