“You hungry?” Marion asked. “’Cause I got a vat of that roadkill chili in back. Little spicy this time, but you’re welcome to a bowl.”

Marion’s chili was the stuff of legend, and I’d eaten a hundred bowls of it in my lifetime. When I used to come in here with Junie, she’d try hard not to wrinkle up her nose at the sight of it. Said she couldn’t imagine slurping down a spoonful of tire-flattened raccoon or squashed opossum. She was worried she’d barf before she got it swallowed and then Marion would smack her on the back of the head the way she did the boys who tried to steal Slim Jims off the counter. It had always made me a little proud that Junie refused the chili. Proof she wasn’t so hungry she’d eat anything to fill her belly. Tangible evidence that I was a better mama than my own.

“No thanks. No chili for me today.”

Marion eyed me over the new cigarette she was lighting. “What’s brung you my way? I’m not exactly a regular stop.” Her voice was friendly enough, but her eyes were hard. She knew I wanted something from her, wasn’t there to shoot the shit or buy a loaf of bread. And familiarity didn’t buy me any special favors. Another way Marion was like my mama. You had to earn every scrap.

I sidled closer to the counter. The shop looked empty, but someone could be lurking in one of the shadowy corners, listening. I leaned on the ancient floor freezer, the glass coated with a sheen of dirty frost and inside gutted fish stacked right next to freezer-burned popsicles and stale ice cream sandwiches. “My mama told me you might know something about Izzy Logan.” I paused. “And the man she was seeing.”

“Did she now?” Marion shook her head. “Not like your mama to be running her mouth.”

Frustration rose up in me, a black, swamping wave. I didn’t have time for this bullshit. To jump through Marion’s hoops. My daughter was dead, and people could either get on board and help me or get the hell out of my way. “Are you going to tell me or not?”

Marion blew a plume of smoke in my direction. “Yeah, I’ll tell you.” She reached out and snagged my wrist in her hand, tightened her fingers until I winced. “But don’t go getting too big for your britches, you hear? I tell your mama how you talked to me, and she’s liable to teach you a lesson on respecting your elders.”

I stared back at her until she dropped my wrist. “I’ll take my chances.”

I don’t know what I expected, but Marion’s big booming laugh definitely wasn’t it. “Well, look at you,” she hooted. “I thought maybe that mouth of yours was gone for good.”

“Nope,” I told her. “Just been in hiding.” That mouth one more thing I buried when Junie was born. Wanting to teach her a better way to approach the world. One that wouldn’t leave her judged as poor white trash and not much else. But now I wondered if maybe a mouth like I used to have might have helped save her. Maybe she’d have been more likely to scream. To tell someone to go fuck themselves. To fight back. Or maybe it would have only made the knife move faster. Truth is, there’s no good way to navigate being female in this world. If you speak out, say no, stand your ground, you’re a bitch and a harpy, and whatever happens to you is your own fault. You had it coming. But if you smile, say yes, survive on politeness, you’re weak and desperate. An easy mark. Prey in a world full of predators. There are no risk-free options for women, no choices that don’t come back to smack us in the face. Junie hadn’t learned that yet. But she would have, eventually. We all do, one way or the other.