It was important to them, in a different way than it was important to her, that she set the links in the chain in the right order. The story had to go smoothly from then until now, for everyone’s sake. Carly needed to be able to see it correctly in her mind to sort it out. They only needed to know how to catch him.

In Mrs. Carmichael’s house, Carly finally fought the tingle of tears, but more from not being able to get the story out than from shock, although the shock was certainly there. Her body was shaking with spent adrenaline. Her teeth chattered as she tried to talk. The aftertaste was metal and ashes.

Something turned and tightened in Carly as she watched Mrs. Carmichael react to her story. Carly didn’t know Mrs. Carmichael well. She was the nice neighbor, the woman who carved half a dozen amazing jack-o’-lanterns at Halloween and lit her porch with them for three nights running. She was the lady with the little white dog and always a smile and a wave. Now she was the first person to pull Carly into a fierce hug after what had happened. But there was a message in the embrace.

Mrs. Carmichael’s hug felt charged with more understanding than Carly felt for her own idea of the last few minutes. No! But yes. Something had happened to Mrs. Carmichael, something that made her know what Carly had just been through. But Mrs. Carmichael knew more, knew worse. In the tremor of her arms, Carly could tell.

Instantly they were part of the same set, even though Carly was only almost fifteen and Mrs. Carmichael was way older than even her mother. Carly wanted to know, but was sure that she would never ask. She could feel the woman’s fingers trembling, holding Carly’s face in her hands the way Carly imagined a grandmother would. The wary sadness in the woman’s eyes. The way she pulled her mouth into a lipless line, hemming in her own story behind a tight sadness, Carly knew that this was as close as they would ever get to talking about it. It felt both right and wrong.

She thought of the ukulele. The peg turned.

Carly told her story, over and over. First, to the EMTs from the fire truck that got there while Carly and Mrs. Carmichael were still calling it in. She’d told Mrs. Carmichael that she wasn’t hurt, but the word attacked had been part of the 911 report, and that’s all it had taken. Carly told the story to the police as they arrived next, two sets of two, minutes apart. Then to another man in regular clothes. They said he was a lieutenant, who seemed like the boss. Everyone said the detectives were on the way. That sounded like a big deal, so she tried to get the story better, get it ready.