That night after pizza that nobody ate, Dad turned on the news. When the anchor announced, “New details in the story of a Texas serial killer,” my mother opened her mouth to protest, but then said nothing. Grace was in her bouncy seat in the kitchen. She wouldn’t understand anything she heard, I told myself. But it still felt wrong.

In silence, we watched the segment detailing the bodies found. Familiar places flashed across the television screen—the bridge I took to get to H-E-B, the new construction where Rachael had been looking at houses, my own street and even my own home—and over it words like found dismembered, buried remains, and grisly discovery.

Worse still were the pictures of the victims, photos taken in happier times. Marcus Fontenot in his military uniform, Shelby Jackson seated at a picnic table between two friends with their faces blurred out, Jessica and Damen Weber on their wedding day. The police had connected Brady and Lena to the abandoned-car killings, bringing their joint total to double digits. Together Brady and Lena had plucked these people from the side of the road or out of their own cars and butchered them.

And the news didn’t mention the man who’d owned our house before, or Sandy, or any of the people Lena might have killed in their own homes. Those deaths weren’t as grisly, but that almost made them worse. Sandy should have been safe, relaxing in her shower, but Lena had taken her life and for all I knew, no one was even looking at it as more than an accident.

My mother was twisting her hands together on her lap, the same way I did sometimes, and my dad’s mouth was a tight line by the time the program ended.

I stood up abruptly, and my parents looked at me like they expected me to make a speech. “I’m just …” I didn’t know how to finish that statement, so I gestured at the front door.

“Don’t go out alone,” Dad said.

“Just taking a look.” I cracked the door and peeked out. No sign of the police, no note or jar on the stoop. The sky was a brilliant cobalt, and the shadows were deepening.

“It’ll be okay. Just shut the door, babe,” my mom said over the opening music for the game show that followed the news.

I hated this. I hated watching my parents protect me, I hated leaving Michael alone. I was tired of being the fragile flower, the one nobody thought was strong or brave, the one nobody listened to or believed. I texted Alondra: No police yet. Is someone coming? Call me.

While my parents took turns shouting out answers in chorus with the contestants, I brought Grace into the bedroom to nurse her and put her down for the night. Once she was settled in my arms, I pulled out my phone and called Michael again.