In Mendosa’s Market, I keep my gaze down, trying to grab only essentials, canned vegetables and dry goods, things easy to prepare. But part of me feels caught up in the spinning reel of an old movie. I was just here, it seems, right here by the lit icebox full of milk while Hap reached out for a cold gallon and opened it, drinking from the jug and winking at me before passing it my way. Then he was pushing the cart again, steering with his elbows, leaning over the basket. Idling as if we had all the time in the world.

But no one has that.

When I finish my shopping, I pay in cash, loading the bags into the back of my Bronco before heading down the street to the GoodLife Cafe. It was called something else when I lived here, but I can’t remember what, and it doesn’t matter. The sound and shape and smell of the place fit my memory exactly. I order coffee and a bowl of soup, and then sit in the window facing the street, comforted by the noises around me, dishes clattering in the bus tub, fresh beans in the grinder, friendly talk. Then, from over my shoulder, I hear two men arguing.

“You don’t really believe all that bullshit, do you?” one barks at the other. “Psychics and whatnot? You know how much money that family has. She just wants a piece of it. Hell, I don’t blame her.”

“What if she really does know something, and no one follows up on it?” the other man spits back. “The girl could be bleeding out somewhere or worse.”

“She’s probably already dead.”

“What’s wrong with you? She’s a person. A kid.”

“A famous person’s kid.”

“That doesn’t mean anything. What if the psychic is telling the truth? Haven’t you ever seen or heard something you can’t explain?”

“Nope. Can’t say that I have.”

“Then you’re not paying attention.”

—

Listening to them gives me a weightless, unmoored feeling. I pay for my coffee and soup, careful not to look their way, and cross to the message board on the far wall. It was always part of our morning ritual, Hap’s and mine. He had a way of leaning back instead of forward as he scanned the board, a solid white mug in his hand, his eyes roving for something that hadn’t jumped out just yet.

“How much do you think you can know about a town this size?” he asked me once, early on.

I’d lived in larger, dingier towns all through Mendocino County. By comparison, the village was spick-and-span, with only fifteen streets that even had names. In my mind, it seemed like a doll’s house you could open like a suitcase and see into, room by room. “Everything.”

“People you see every day? Houses you pass a thousand times without thinking?”