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“Well, I don’t know if he cheated first and then they had trouble, or things were going south and then he went shopping. We can argue chicken and egg if you want, but the point is that Dale Childress is who put those signs in our yard,” Mom says.

“And set them on fire,” I add.

“Yes, that too.” She nods.

“And threw a brick through the living room window.”

“Right.”

“While we were in the living room,” I say, my voice rising.

“Yes,” Mom agrees, her tone matching mine. “Your dad and I talked about it, and we both agreed that we’re not going to press charges.”

“You—are you fucking serious, Mom?” I screech. Steven lays his ears back, eyebrows going into a flat line.

“Lydia! Don’t talk like—”

“Like an outraged person?” I ask. “Because that’s what I am right now. Out-fucking-raged.”

“You’re starting to sound like Bristal,” Mom chides.

“There wouldn’t be words if I was Bristal,” I tell her. “It would just be fists.”

“Don’t ever talk like that, Lydia—do you hear me?” Mom says, her parenting tone coming in and hitting down hard. “That’s a threat, and if you make those noises outside this home, who knows what it could bring down on this household!”

“Bricks?” I ask. “Fiery signs?”

“Your father has gone through hell for backing Abe Lytle,” Mom says. “We all have. This is an opportunity for this family to turn the other cheek. It could gain us some support, and Lord knows we need it.”

“That, and a security system,” I tell her. “You just open-invited anyone who has a beef with us to walk on by and toss a brick. We’ll just put in a new window and say we understand.”

“That’s the other thing,” Mom says, shifting uncomfortably and adjusting Steven on her chest. “You Dad called ADT, and they’re coming tomorrow.”

“Seriously?” I ask, stunned.

“Yes,” she says. “But we’re not putting the signs out. We don’t want people to—”

“Have their feelings hurt?”

Mom sighs and avoids my eyes, making a show of inspecting Steven’s ears for cleanliness. I fall forward, face-first into a sequined pillow.

“This town . . . ,” I mutter. “I don’t even know.”

“Well, I do,” Mom says. “I know a lot, more than you might guess. So do you want my other piece of good news or not?”

“Sure,” I say in a monotone, my disinterest flipping over a few sequins.

“Denise Halverson is alive.”

Thirty-Two

“What?” I spring up like a jack-in-the-box, and Mom gives me a coy smile.

“Yep. Your podcast did more than ruffle feathers, and it reached further than you thought. Michelle got curious and started looking through Facebook—”

“Denise isn’t on—”

“And she couldn’t find her there,” Mom says, raising her voice to talk over me. “So she went to Classmates.com.”