Epilogue Adora was found guilty of murder in the first degree for what she did to Marian.

Chapter Seventeen On May 28, Adora Crellin was arrested for the murders of Ann Nash, Natalie Keene, and Marian Crellin.

Chapter Sixteen I fell asleep without the fan on, woke up with the sheets stuck to me. My own sweat and urine. Teeth chattering and my heartbeat thumping behind my eyeballs.

Chapter Fifteen Three little pink bikes were lined up on the porch, bedecked with white wicker baskets, ribbons streaming off the handlebars.

Chapter Fourteen I nearly tumbled down Jackie’s steps, my legs were so wobbly. Behind my back I could hear her boys chanting the Calhoon football rally. I drove around the corner, parked under a copse of mulberry treees, and rested my head against the wheel.

Chapter Thirteen It was past two when I woke, my stomach coiled in on itself, my jaw aching from grinding my teeth for five hours straight. Fucking X.

Chapter Ten “I’m sorry she came here, because now she’s dead,” said a weeping John Keene, 18, of his younger sister Natalie, 10.

Chapter Nine I fell asleep, accidentally and hard, at nine o’clock, woke to an angry sun at seven the next morning. A dried-out tree rustled its branches against my window screen as if it wanted to climb in next to me for comfort.

Chapter Eight Amma. All this time I’d had little real interest in her. Now I did. What I saw at the farm kept my throat clenched.

Chapter Seven Once I was standing on a cold corner in Chicago waiting for the light to change when a blind man came clicking up.

Chapter Six Small towns usually cater to one kind of drinker. That kind may vary: There are the honky-tonk towns, which keep their bars on the outskirts, make their patrons feel a little bit outlaw.

Chapter Five Alan was wearing white pants, the creases like folded paper, and a pale green oxford when I came down to breakfast.

Chapter Four Someone had spray-painted blue curlicues on the legs of the water tower at Jacob J. Garrett Memorial Park, and it was left looking oddly dainty, as if it were wearing crochet booties.

Chapter Three My mother was wearing blue to the funeral. Black was hopeless and any other color was indecent. She also wore blue to Marian’s funeral, and so did Marian.

Chapter Two Happy Hour. I gave up on the search and stopped off at Footh’s, the town’s low-key country bar, before dropping by 1665 Grove Street, home of Betsy and Robert Nash, parents of Ashleigh, twelve; Tiffanie, eleven; the deceased Ann, forever nine; and six-year-old Bobby Jr.

Chapter One My sweater was new, stinging red and ugly. It was May 12 but the temperature had dipped to the forties, and after four days shivering in my shirtsleeves, I grabbed cover at a tag sale rather than dig through my boxed-up winter clothes. Spring in Chicago.