“You’re not supposed to be up here,” he said. His teeth were straight and perfect, like movie-star teeth. He looked like he could have walked straight off the set of some old Western. Like those Clint Eastwood movies her dad sometimes watched.

“I’m sorry. I thought this was a store,” she said.

“Downstairs only. Didn’t you see the sign?”

There hadn’t been any sign telling her to stay downstairs, no roped-off area or curtain.

“No. I’m sorry—I guess I missed it? I came in and called out, but I guess you didn’t hear me.”

“I’m closed anyway,” he said, scowling at her.

She remembered the OPEN sign on the front door. But she didn’t want to argue. Not with a man who had a gun strapped to his waist.

“I’m not here to shop,” she admitted.

“Well, what is it you want, then? If you’re doing some school fund-raiser, selling cookies or raffle tickets or some shit like that, I’m not interested.”

“No. Nothing like that. I’m Lori Kissner’s daughter.” She watched him, hoping these would be the magic words, the key that unlocked the door; that he might even smile, say, Oh, of course, you’re Lori’s girl, what can I do for you?

He stared at her, poker-faced and silent.

“I heard,” she said, “uh, I heard you two were friends. That she came here sometimes?” She hated how small and unsure her own voice sounded. And it seemed absurd, really. The idea that her mother actually came here, spent time with this man she and Daddy had always made fun of.

Her eyes went to his gun again.

She thought of what Mike had said earlier: It’s the crazy man with the gun.

“A gun is a tool,” her daddy always told her. “But it’s also a deadly weapon. Guns deserve our respect. They demand our focus. When there’s a gun in the room with you, you give it your full attention, Ollie.”

So this is what she did now. She gave that gun her full attention while trying real hard to pretend that’s exactly what she wasn’t doing. She kept it in sight at all times without looking right at it.

“I know Lori, sure. Everyone knows Lori,” he said with a sly smile that made Olive’s skin crawl. “But I wouldn’t say we were friends.”

“But she came here sometimes, right?” Olive persisted.

Was it her imagination, or did he flinch a little here?

He looked from her to the covered mirror, like maybe the answer was there. Maybe the mirror would speak, voice strange and muffled from the heavy drapery-like cloth that covered it. The mirror would tell her the truth.