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keep out the cold. Or keep me from running back to the car.
    I didn’t know what I expected a murderer’s home to look like, but I certainly didn’t think it would look so . . . normal. Floors, walls, ceilings. Yes, normal.
    “So, what won’t you tell me?” I asked.
    “Want to look around first?”
    “No,” I said.
    I couldn’t move. Twenty-seven years of hatred and longing sank into my feet, weighing me to the plank flooring. I just wanted the money. No, I wanted the life I should have had. I’d take the money as a consolation prize.
    “Well, Sarah.” Rich spoke with care, the words tiptoeing off his lips. “When your father died, he had a bit over forty thousand dollars in the bank, and about the same in stocks and other holdings.” He paused.
    “And?”
    “And, as part of the requirements set out in the trust your father established for you, you must live here, in Jonah, for at least six months. If you don’t do this, you don’t get the money.”
    I exploded. “What? Are you insane? Do you know what he did? Where does he get off, thinking he has the right to demand anything of me? He can rot in his grave. I won’t do it.”
    Rich the Mushroom didn’t flinch.
    I flung open the door, and began walking back to town. I wanted to be alone, to stew in my own venom. Within fifty steps, though, the snow glued clumps of wet autumn leaves to my feet, my leather Mary Janes soaked through.
    Rich pulled up behind me. He stopped. I got in. He said nothing. I said nothing. He dropped me off in town.
    I’d lived on peanut M&M’s and Diet Coke for the last three days, as the pounding in my head now reminded me. I went into the diner. A bell tinkled as I opened the door, and heads turned to see who was coming in. Within seconds, the chatter stopped. Patrons inspected me with darting glances.
    The woman at the counter said, “Have a seat anywhere you want. Someone will be with you in a sec.”
    So I sat in a high-backed booth at the far corner. No one could see me, and that fueled the whispers. I put my head in my hands, rubbed at my temples.
    “Hi. Can I get you some coffee?”
    I looked up at the waitress, young and half pretty. The right half of her face was smooth and bright and scrubbed a sweet pink. The other side was scarred. Badly. It looked as if a plastic baby doll had been held too close to the campfire, skin melted tight and shiny. Her left nostril smushed flat into her cheek. She had no eyelashes or eyebrow on her left eye.
    “Uh, no.” My tongue caught in my throat. “Just water. Please.”
    “Sure thing,” she said. “The menu is right there behind the napkins. Our specials are in there.”
    “Thanks.”
    “Not meaning to be nosy, but are you okay? You look really pale.”
    “I’m fine. It’s just a bad headache.”
    “Can I bring you something? Tylenol? Aspirin? I have both in my purse.”
    “Tylenol, please.”
    The waitress disappeared for just a moment before coming back with a filmy glass and bottle. She dug her thumbnail under the cap and shook a couple of capsules into her hand, gave them to me. I tossed them in my mouth, swilling the ice water too fast. My headache swelled.
    “I’m Beth. You must be Sarah,” the girl said.
    “Is this town that small?” I mumbled. Everyone was listening.
    “Yes, but that’s not how I know your name.” Beth laughed. “You’re staying with us. At the inn.”
    I looked at the girl again. She had Maggie’s bird-thin frame.
    “Can I take your order?”
    “Cheeseburger, rare, with lettuce, onion, and tomato. And onion rings.”
    “Great,” Beth said, and flitted away to the kitchen, humming. She moved like a bird, too, light and full of song.
    I leaned my head back against the padded red seat and closed my eyes. Pieces of conversation floated through the French-fried air. By the time my food arrived, I’d learned that Mr. Winchell lost three goats yesterday, the diner’s hash was too dry, and Ima-Louise Saltzman’s youngest daughter had