Now, in front of her mirror, she remembers a recess aide, a woman in thick glasses and a puffy brown coat, leaves swirling in a small triangle of wind behind her.

The aide said:

Don’t say that name, kids. Don’t ever say that name again.

And a look, too, right? In the eyes of that aide, just after she delivered her command.

“It was like she forgot what she was talking about right after she told us to forget it,” Melanie says now. “Like she literally didn’t know what she just said.”

If Melanie’s honest with herself (and this is not an easy admission), she felt some measure of relief when she heard Tammy Jones was killed. Tammy and not Melanie. Because it sounded like a scene straight from the stories (she now clearly remembers) about Daphne.

And if the woman comes for those who think too much…

Well, thank God she wasn’t the only one thinking.

But can she stop?

She untwists a braid, combs it out, notes how half her head is untwisted and the other is not. Makes her look like two people; a member of the basketball team on one side, a crazed overthinker on the other.

Criminally insane.

Like Daphne.

See?

Melanie steps away from the mirror and walks over to her bedroom window. No matter how honest the revelation was, the relief at discovering someone else died was short-lived. Because now what? She knows Kit is thinking of Daphne too. That’s plain as yogurt. Is everyone?

Don’t ever say that name again.

It’s an impossible situation, of course. That’s how her aunt Paula put it when she was wasted, when she told Melanie her version of Daphne’s story many summers ago, as the two sat in lounge chairs, their feet getting wet from the rotating sprinkler.

Melanie marvels at the story now. And how she hadn’t thought of it, not once, since that day.

It’s a crazy story, Paula said, her accent full Michigan. She was way into the gin at this point. Melanie, only thirteen at the time, wasn’t far behind. I guess it happened thirty-something years ago? I’m no good with dates. Not with dates with men and even worse with dates in history. I didn’t even know it was Saturday till your mom said so a few minutes ago. Or maybe it was ten minutes ago.

She laughed. Melanie smiled, sipped more gin. Maybe Paula thought it was water.

So, there was this huge girl…like…NBA tall…and she was weird…not because she was big…but because she was quiet. Not like you. Or maybe yes, like you. I don’t know. This Daphne…does she have a last name? I don’t have a clue. I’m bad with names. She was big and weird and these assholes in town, they came and killed her.

Melanie squinted at the ice in her glass.

Killed her?

So, it’s like this, Paula said, exactly as the sprinkler sprayed their feet again. Daphne drove a muscle car, whatever year it was. And she had it running in the garage and these murderers, they came by her place with a mind to toss eggs at her door. But they saw the car running and they thought, Hey, let’s close the garage and maybe Daphne will back up into the door. A prank. Nasty, but small. They closed the garage door, but they had no idea Daphne had fallen asleep in the car, listening to a heavy-metal band. Like Rush. She was taking a nap after a long drive from who-knows-where to see a band. Maybe Rush. So, you see, these mean people, they killed her. She died like people who commit suicide die, but she didn’t commit suicide. See? Dark matter. It’s all dark matter. And so now she haunts Samhattan like a white sheet in chains.