She’d watched the clip again and again, to the point of where it worked its way into her dreams. You’d think it was pure Hollywood hackery—Natural Born Killers strapped onto an after-school special. But to Robin, it seemed like it may have been an accurate portrayal. She had read eyewitness accounts describing the gleam in April Cooper’s eyes, the serene smile as she watched the bodies fall. Some speculated Stockholm syndrome, but every article, every police report she could get her hands on, every credible account of the killings described the girl—a fifteen-year-old high school freshman—as not only a willing accomplice but an enthusiastic one. April’s former classmates and teachers spoke of someone who was almost disturbingly standoffish, a middling-to-poor student frequently caught daydreaming in class, a girl who rarely spoke, even when spoken to. A dead-eyed girl whose feelings remained a mystery.

Had she always been that way, or was the antisocial behavior the result of the untimely death of her mother, Grace, killed in a car accident just one year earlier? Hard to say, but according to one article, when April met Gabriel LeRoy—in the parking lot of a McDonald’s that was walking distance from both their high schools in Santa Rosa, California—the evil within her blossomed.

The more her stepfather, Peter Cooper, objected to their budding relationship, the more April and Gabriel drew closer to each other. The same article described them like this: two dry sticks rubbing together, insistently enough to create a lethal flame.

Throughout her search, Robin had only been able to find one photo of the couple—that same faded prom picture she’d seen days ago, April’s and Gabriel’s pale features ravaged by years of exposure, barely distinguishable on the screen. For the longest time, Robin had stared into the unsmiling face of that young girl as Eric lay sleeping beside her, enlarging it until it looked like a mess of pixels. She didn’t like the thoughts that kept running through her head. She refused to put a name to them.

Robin plucked the piece of paper from her nightstand, unfolded it, stared at the number. Her father’s handwriting. April. No last name. Quentin Garrison’s name and phone number, another name: Kate Sharkey. And then April. Simply April. All written on a fresh piece of paper, untouched by the elements, most likely the same day Garrison had called Robin. The day of Dad’s death.

And Garrison was still here. She’d seen him in the cemetery parking lot, just after the funeral. Standing next to his silver Chevy Cruz. Talking to CoCo.