Velvet pulled the towel closer and sat up against the cold wrought-iron headboard. Her hair felt slimy and thick on her shoulders; she patted it back with nervous fingers. It was brown when wet, almost the mousy shade she’d been born with.

“Yeah, Mom, I’m fine. How are you?”

“I’m fine. I’m not bothering you, am I?”

“No, of course not.” I was just sleeping off an overdose on the floor, Mom, nothing to be concerned about. Happens all the time. “So what’s happening down on the farm?”

“Your sister’s having another baby in October, isn’t that nice? And Ron Junior, he’s thinking about buying old Ned Armstrong’s hardware store and turning it into one of those chain stores. Oh, I don’t mean they’d sell chains, I mean—well, you know what I mean. And your Aunt Jane Lee had the flu, but she’s better now. Happy birthday, honey.”

“It’s not my birthday, Mom.”

“Oh, sure it is, honey. Your twenty-seventh birthday. Remember?”

Velvet pulled her knees up to her chest and rested her forehead on them, trying to press out the ache, but it kept tunneling deeper. It was somewhere around her stomach again.

“No, Mom, you’re talking about Amy.” Her voice was patient and not quite steady. Why didn’t she remember this would happen? It was the same every year, just the same, and she was always surprised. Maybe that was her part of the agreement, her half of the masochism. “Amy’s dead, Mom.”

The silence lasted for several seconds before the crying began, gentle empty sobs. In the middle of one of them the phone went dead, and Velvet listened to the flutter of the line and tried to find the strength to hang up.

Amy’s ghost hadn’t shown up in the night; it never did. Amy was the forgiving one of the family.

Velvet let the phone fall back into the cradle, and curled up on her side while the sun beat down and tried uselessly to warm her.

When the phone rang again, she ignored it. Three rings. Four. A click, and the answering machine rescued the call.

She didn’t recognize the voice.

“Hi, um, Miss Daniels, my name is Lenny Bradshaw and I’m a reporter, um, with the Big D Gazette. You know, the one with the color cover? I understand you have some information about the fire at the Adolphus. Give me a call and we’ll talk it over. I’ll make it worth your while.”

He gave a number. As she slowly twisted around to look at the answering machine, he hung up. The tape whirred. The light blinked.

She played the message again, listened to the number, one finger on the erase switch.

Money. I’ll make it worth your while.

What was it Ming had said? Don’t cause any trouble?