Milo said, “I’m glad the thing with Laura worked out, but that’s not why we’re here. Now, if you could please get off your horses, girls.”

Marissa said, “This is exercise time.”

Ashley said, “We don’t stop because you say.”

“It’s important, girls. Really.”

Ashley tossed her own mane, frowned, and formed silent words that looked nasty, but she complied. When her boots touched ground, her sister followed suit. The two of them left the corral, Ashley locking it behind her. Both girls were over six feet in polished riding boots—snakeskin for Ashley, something that looked like elephant hide for Marissa. Each T-shirt read Look a Gift Horse above a cartoon of a wide-open mouth.

Marissa folded her arms across her chest. “Okay, what?”

“I need to talk to you about your mother.”

“Mom?” By the end of the syllable her voice had shot up half an octave.

Ashley’s eyes narrowed. “What about Mom?”

Milo did his best to be gentle but there’s no way to mute the horror, no way to prevent yourself from becoming yet another survivor’s worst memory.

Ashley and Marissa Corey shrieked in unison then began shouting “No, no, no” in a syncopated rhythm that smoothed out to a cataract of grief.

Marissa’s arms dropped. She began punching herself in the chest. Ashley wrung her hands and drummed her own forehead. Tears gushed. Both girls slammed against each other, remained locked in a terrible embrace.

Milo chewed his cheek and tapped his foot and wiped his face so hard with one hand that he raised a pink splotch where his left eye met his temple.

We continued to watch and wait and feel useless as Ursula Corey’s daughters began gulping and wailing something that sounded like youyouyouyou.

It took a long time for that to taper to downcast sniffling and involuntary shudders. Milo was ready with tissues that were ignored.

Marissa said, “No, no, no,” and shoved waves of hair away from her tear-soaked face.

Ashley said, “Why would anyone hurt her?”

Milo said, “Don’t know that yet, Marissa.”

“When? When did it happen?”

Milo said, “This morning.”

Ashley said, “It wasn’t Daddy. I’ll tell you that for sure.”

Her sister looked at her. An instant passed before she said, “Shit, no, it wasn’t Daddy.”

Milo said, “Let’s go inside and talk.”

Bawling, the girls stumbled toward the house. Milo and I followed, giving them a four-step lead.

Mourners always head the line.

When they reached the house, Ashley shoved one of the limed-oak double doors and it swung open silently.

Unlocked. The Corey girls had grown up assuming safety.

From now on, they’d never feel completely safe.