“Exciting?” I repeated, taken aback.

“Isn’t that why you’re here? You haven’t bothered to visit in years, even though I know you come around to see Wally and Della, but you smell blood and you’re back, circling my house like a fucking hyena.”

Crissy and I were never close. It wasn’t the age difference, though we were three years apart, but that we had little in common. I’d always been a tomboy, so I refused to let her do my makeup or show me how to shave my legs. If she paid attention to me at all, it was because she needed a scapegoat for her crimes. When we were young, she’d steal sugary cereal—our Saturday morning treat—from my parents’ pantry and blame it on me. Later on, she began using sleepovers at my house as an opportunity to sneak out and meet friends.

If I’m being honest, Crissy had always made me a little nervous. At fifteen, she was missing for two full days before a search party, which included my father, found her in the woods on the outskirts of town. The story became a cautionary tale local parents recounted to their little ones at night. Crissy was wild and rebellious, with no regard for her health or well-being. Some people said she ran away from home; others insisted she’d been abducted. I always assumed she’d gone on an epic drinking binge, and if my parents knew otherwise, they weren’t telling.

“That’s fair,” I said, though it wasn’t. A fucking hyena? Please. I slipped out of my winter boots and crossed the room to sit down. She tucked her legs under her, and I saw I’d misconstrued the pattern on her pants. It wasn’t donuts but pink and yellow diamond rings.

“So, what,” she said, “you think the local cops can’t hold a candle to a big-shot detective? They’re not good enough, just like Swanton wasn’t good enough for you?”

Now I tilted my head. My relationship with Crissy may have failed to thrive, but it wasn’t inherently hostile. She was a woman in mourning, further soured by her shaky relationship with Felicia, but why the hell was she taking all of that out on me? I couldn’t plumb the depths of her aggression.

“I’m sorry it’s been so long. I should have kept in touch, stopped by when I was home.” I showed her my bare palms, the blistering burn. I had nothing more to offer. Before today I’d no sooner have visited Crissy than skinny-dipped in Lake Champlain in January. Too many bad memories. Too much psychological baggage.

“The thing is, I don’t want to know,” Crissy said, as if I hadn’t spoken at all. “What happened to him, who did it, whatever. It doesn’t change anything. He’s gone, and we got stuck with her.” She slurped her coffee, deliberately loud. The her in question was Felicia.

“Have the police been by to see you?” I didn’t like the way Crissy was talking. This blatant indifference to her father’s murder wouldn’t go over well with investigators.