‘How is this supposed to work?’ Ellis asks once we approach Lenore’s street, Rockglenn. ‘Is this like a good cop, bad cop kind of thing?’

‘Why, change of heart? You wanna be bad cop?’ I say, laughing a little at the thought of soft-spoken Ellis slapping his hands down on an interrogation table.

‘D-definitely not.’

‘Don’t worry. I’ll do the talking. I need you to listen for important information that I might miss as someone who’s not from here.’

‘OK.’ Ellis nods vigorously. ‘That makes sense. B-b-but what if she doesn’t want to talk about it at all? Then what do we do next?’

‘We’ll get there when we get there,’ I say, trancelike. I turn to meet his gaze; there’s a mayfly on his shoulder. I peel it off by its wings. ‘Those fuckers only have a lifespan of five minutes, did you know that? And each one dedicates its impossibly short life to being as irritating as possible.’ Just like you, I imagine Peyton saying. I strip away the thought.

‘Mona, what if she’s not even home?’

‘You’re right. Let’s leave.’

Ellis turns to me with a wry smile. I plough into him with my shoulder.

‘Is that what you want me to say?’ I ask.

‘No.’

‘Then what do these anxiety-ridden questions even accomplish, huh?’

‘Force of habit.’

‘Break it. We’ll get there – when we get there. If she doesn’t want to talk, we’ll figure something out. If she’s not here, we’ll come back.’

‘Oh. I think this is it,’ Ellis says.

It’s a small house that evokes the aesthetic of a barn – bright red with a sloped roof and an ill-fitting conservatory addition, framed with thin white netting. It looks like it might crumple under a strong breeze. We stomp up the depressed wooden steps and swing open the first screen door, which is unlocked and about as heavy as a breath. It groans when it opens. A copper sun hangs on one side of it, a moon on the other. A windchime sings. I’m not nervous. I largely feel nothing when I ring the doorbell, and only a slight leap of surprise when the door swings open to reveal a woman.

She’s in her late fifties, maybe, and she’s wearing this corduroy two-piece suit despite the heat, curly black hair on the top of her head, black make-up that has smudged slightly round her eyes. Her skin is a warm brown, barely shiny. The artificial pink of her lips cracks when she purses them. ‘Oh. Hello. Can I help you?’

‘Are you Lenore?’

She blinks. ‘Yes, I am.’

I figure an upfront approach will work best. ‘We wanted to talk to you about Roxy Raines. Did you know her?’