Kurt shrugged. “I don’t know. But people don’t change, right? So if he was willing to help Daisy Hollander disappear . . .”

Nic interrupted him. “Then why not my mother.”

“Exactly.”

A moment passed, Nic thinking. Kurt watching her. Then,

“If she was out of gas, freaking out, then the chief came by, felt sorry for her—promised to drop her somewhere and not tell anyone. It happened on the same day your sister died, right? The same day your mother killed her.”

The last few words hung in the air. Your mother killed her . . .

And Nic felt the reply leave her mouth without a single thought.

“It was an accident,” she said.

Kurt tried to go back. “Of course—you’re right. I only meant . . .”

“I know what you meant. And why you said it.”

She didn’t give him time to say more.

“I need to find Chief Watkins,” she said. “You must know where he lives. You seem to know every inch of this place.”

“Yeah, but he won’t be home.”

“How do you know?”

“Because it’s Thursday. And on Thursday nights he goes to the casino.”

Kurt went on explaining, about free drinks with this and double the payoff with that—all on Thursday nights at Laguna, and every time he said it—Thursday night—Nic felt a tightening in her throat.

“Thursday night was the night of the storm. The night my mother disappeared.”

Had Watkins been heading there, in spite of the storm? Maybe because of it? Did he lie then, and was he lying now? Had he given her mother a ride? Kurt was writing this new story one line at a time, letting Nic piece them together as though the story was of her own making. He said he’d mentioned Daisy Hollander before, but Nic didn’t remember. And she would have, the same way she remembered pulling him to the back of the bar.

Nic reached for the door. Kurt grabbed her. Stopped her.

“Hey,” he said. “Wait a second.”

It was then Nic felt the tears sting her face. She wiped them away, then pulled her arm from his grasp.

“It was an accident,” she said again.

“I know. I’m sorry. It just came out wrong.”

That was bullshit.

“She wasn’t like that,” Nic said. “She wasn’t careless, not about anything.” Memories flooded in, then spilled out. The sweet memories that had been too painful to remember. “Our mother would wake us up for school by sitting on the edge of our beds and wiggling our toes . . . and she used to sing to us—when we were babies . . . I saw her do it with Annie . . . rocking her and gazing into her eyes . . . our mother cried at every stupid talent show and school play no matter how horrible we were . . .”

“Okay.”

“No—it’s not okay. A mother like that doesn’t kill her child.”

“I know.”