“Why were you in there yesterday? Was there a storm?”

“No,” she says.

Birdie picks at the dry Cheerios one by one. Her eyes look far away.

“Who were you waiting for?”

Birdie startles; her head twitches almost unnoticeably.

“You said you were waiting for someone,” Kateri prompts her.

But Birdie answers with something else. “My mom cut her hair,” she says.

“Did she?” Kateri goes along with it, thinking that if nothing else, keeping her talking about anything, about normal everyday activities, will reveal something important.

“Yeah, she cut it all off.”

“Short?” Kateri asks.

“Bald,” Birdie says. “She was going to do mine, but I cried. And then I had to hide.”

“Why was she going to cut all your hair off, Birdie?” Kateri asks. Her arms break out in goose bumps.

“So they can’t find us,” she says.

“Who?”

“Anyone,” Birdie says.

“Who would be looking for you or your mama?”

“Anyone,” Birdie says again.

“Is there someone who was mad at your mom? Or maybe fighting with your mom?”

Birdie’s mouth makes a flat line.

Kateri switches gears. “Birdie, did you draw the picture inside the closet?”

“Yes,” she says. Her face colors with shame. She knows not to draw on the walls.

“Can you tell me who the picture is of? Is he someone you know? Or that your mom knows?”

Birdie shakes her head.

“No?” Kateri asks.

“No,” Birdie says.

“Who is he?”

“He’s the angel,” she says.

Hurt calls her as she’s walking to her car. The day is gray. It rained overnight, and the pavement shines with puddles.

“Any news?” she asks.

“Potential murder weapon,” Hurt says. “An ax.”

“Where?” she asks, and starts her car.

“A ways into the woods. It’s burned,” he says.

“Can you get anything off of it? Prints or blood?”

“The handle is almost completely charred, the ax-head itself covered in soot and dirt and some corrosion. But it’s suspicious enough,” Hurt says, “and it’s close enough. And could be what caused that much blood. There’s no indication in any of the spatter of gunshot residue. It looks like blunt force.”

Kateri nods but doesn’t answer.

“You there?” Hurt asks.

“Yeah.” She sits with her car running, warming, the lights off, the radio turned down.

“How’s the kid?”

She’s a little rag doll, Kateri thinks, and imagines picking her up, running her fingers through all that hair.

“She says Pearl Jenkins shaved her head before she had to hide in the closet.”

“Any idea why?” Hurt says.

“So people couldn’t find them. She planned to do the girl too.”

“Did she say who was looking for them?”

“No. She’s five.”

“Kids know more than you think they do,” he says. “Did you ask about the son? Shannon?”

“No,” Kateri says.

“Why not?”

“She doesn’t seem afraid of him. He’s not a source of tension for her at all,” she says. “But she keeps talking about an angel. Do you think we’ll find a body?” she asks.

“At least we have a weapon. A commonplace item you’d find in a house in the woods. Where an adult male might have killed his own mother. I need you to try again, Fisher.”