Murderer. The word is like a bell, ringing through her head. Is that what she is? Dee knows she can never go back to Needless Street. She left bloody traces of herself all through the forest, all over his body. If one thing comes to light, others follow. They are like that, secrets, they move in flocks like birds.

She runs on through the forest. It becomes difficult to see the path ahead; the past is everywhere, overlaying the dawnlit world. Images come, and voices. She sees a ponytail flying between two tree trunks, hears her name whispered in a frightened voice. The tired detective’s face swims before her, the last time they spoke face to face.

“Are you sure you’ve told me everything about that day, Delilah? You were just a kid, you know. People would understand.” Karen’s eyes were kind. Dee nearly told her right then and there, she really did. She has never been closer to telling.

It was Lulu’s white flip-flop that made Karen suspect, of course. The woman from the bathroom was certain she hadn’t picked it up by mistake and put it in her own bag. She was sure it must have been put there by someone else. Dee was furious with herself for that. Who knew the woman would be so sharp?

“You can’t prove anything,” Dee hissed. Karen’s careworn eyes moved over her, the creases deepened at the edges, like volcanic land.

“It will eat at you until there’s nothing left,” she said finally. “Believe me, it would be better to let it out.” That was when it went sour, of course.

Dee stops, retching. She crouches, her mind yawns up colors and memory. Her breath is coming too fast. She tries to summon the white static, make it cover the thoughts that teem in. But it’s no good. The air smells like cold water, sunscreen on warm skin.

Dee walks across the lake-shore, away from her family, navigating the checkrboard maze of blankets.

The yellow-headed boy says, “Hi.” She sees the swirls of white lotion on his pale skin. When he smiles his front two teeth overlap slightly. It gives him a feral, intriguing air.

“Hi,” says Dee. He has to be at least eighteen, probably in college. She watches him watching her and understands, for the first time, that he sees both predator and prey. It is complicated and exciting. So when Trevor offers a hand to shake she smirks. She sees the flash of anger, of hurt. His pale skin flushes.

“Are you here with your folks?” This is retaliation. What he means is, You are a baby who comes to the lake with her family.

Dee shrugs. “I managed to lose them,” she says. “Except for this one.”

He smiles, like he appreciates the joke. “Where are your parents?”

“All the way over by the lifeguard stand,” she says, pointing. “They were all sleeping and I was bored.”