I snorted as she showed more photos of the railroad bridge and interviewed teenagers on Woodard’s campus (I made a note to tell Adam Wallace he should forbid reporters on school grounds) who yammered on about how scary it all was. A boy in a gray hoodie stood nervously with hands in his pockets. “If you go to the bridge at midnight and call her name, you’ll see her floating,” he said. “Nah, I’m too scared to go there.” Three dim-witted girls giggled as they admitted they’d gone there before but seen nothing.

More tacky images, and then Maggie was on our street in a black jacket, hair whipping around her head. Theresa’s house loomed in the background.

“The girl behind the Ghost Girl legend? She had a name—and she lived right here in this sleepy neighborhood we call Ivy Woods.”

Maggie swooped her arm dramatically. As she explained the tragic history of Daphne Brown, the camera panned our cul-de-sac, then the lake, the woods. A squirrel running up a tree.

“She was a popular babysitter in the neighborhood, well-loved by the kids.”

The camera cut to a somber Ellen Hendricks. “Yeah, she was a great babysitter. We loved her.”

Maggie again, close-up now for drama. “But something drove Daphne Brown to her death that night. Was she really depressed and suicidal? Or was it something else that turned tragic?”

“I have my doubts.” Mrs. Tressle stood on the curb, chewing her lip. “That girl always seemed happy to me. She didn’t seem like the type to jump.”

Maggie stared knowingly into the camera. “Some long-term residents believe that even if Daphne did get into trouble, it would be hard to find the truth in such a close-knit neighborhood.”

She cut to Lynn Deeds, one of her poker buddies, in front of her house. “If something did happen,” she said in a whiny voice, “I could totally see how no one would say anything about it. Let’s just say what happens in Ivy Woods stays in Ivy Woods.”

“Are you fucking kidding me?” I glared at the screen.

The television hissed. Then I smelled something burning, turned, and realized the hissing was the sound of the pasta boiling over. “Shit.” I jumped up to turn off the burner. A small spit of hot water dropped onto my hand. “Shit, shit, shit.”

I ran my hand under the faucet, as more graphics graced the screen. The bridge again. Lightning. “In part two, I’ll investigate more of the true story behind one of our area’s most famous urban legends. And we’ll go behind the scenes with someone who has an interesting connection to that tragic night.”

The camera focused on a black-and-white shot of a bedroom. I knew that room. Knew that circle window with the witch decoration. In fact, I could’ve, right then, walked across the house, peered out the window, and seen it across the street.