Robin gulped the wine and took a bite of her omelet and gazed out of her kitchen window. It was 8:00 P.M. but still light out, the clouds blushing with the first hint of sunset. It’s not really that late anyway, she thought, summer working its magic, making everything seem just a little less serious. She remembered Quentin Garrison asking her about the Inland Empire Killers, and that seemed less serious too. Just an overzealous young reporter, following every tenuous lead he could find. Back at work, she’d looked up everything she could about April Cooper. And in this case, knowledge had wiped away most of her fears. As it turned out, the murderous teen had been three years younger than her mother was. And according to every story about her, she’d died in a fire. Mom may have known a murderer. Maybe they went to the same school or swam at the same public pool or went to summer camp together or something. Big deal. But it probably was to Robin’s mother, the type of person who would have blamed herself for allowing the murders to happen. No wonder she’d gone ballistic over her seven-year-old kid watching that ridiculous TV movie . . .

Anyway, if Garrison’s phone call had taught Robin anything, it was that she needed to talk to her mother more about her past. Here, her parents lived three blocks away, in the house she’d grown up in. She considered her mother her best friend, someone she could talk to about anything. Yet, aside from vague references to foster care and growing up poor, she knew virtually nothing about the life she’d led before meeting her father.

That was strange, wasn’t it?

She took another bite of her omelet. The cheese wasn’t entirely melted, yet the eggs were too dry. Robin was a terrible cook. She threw out the rest and slapped together a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. She ate half of it, polished off the rest of her glass of wine, and tapped her parents’ number into her cell phone. Robin’s father answered after three rings. “Oh, hi, Robbie.” A strange, sad note in his voice. “I was just watching the Yankees lose the fifth game in a row.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, Dad.”

“Los Angeles Angels. They’re killing us.”

“Listen, is Mom around? I just wanted to ask her something.”

“She’s at the grocery store. We ran out of coffee. Anything I can help you with?”

“Maybe . . .”

“I’m all ears.”

“How much do you know about Mom’s childhood?”

Robin heard the TV in the background, Michael Kay saying something about a forced out. “Well, that’s an unusual question,” her father said.

“It shouldn’t be, though, should it?” Robin said. “I mean, most people can’t get their parents to shut up about the good old days.”

“The old days weren’t very good for your mother.”