“I don’t really remember much—”

“You’ll get credited in print,” I suggested.

“No. Sorry.” She started to close the door.

“Or you can be completely anonymous,” Lon offered quickly.

The door stilled.

“It would mean a lot to us if you could help us out,” I added. “We drove all the way out here.”

She blinked at us for several seconds, giving my silver halo a suspicious glance, then shut the door and slid both chains off the locks. When the door reopened, a thin woman with dyed red hair, a dark green halo, and leathery skin stood in front of us. Dressed in a blue Starry Market shirt with a red name tag, Cindy gestured for us to come inside.

Her small apartment was cluttered with small porcelain figurine animals with big eyes: owls, cats, and dogs lined cheap brass étagères along the walls. Two variegated spider plants hung from beaded macramé holders, blocking the view from a single dirty window.

“Hope we’re not catching you on your way to work,” I said, nodding at her name tag as we sat down on her couch. “We’ll only be a second.”

“No, I’m just getting home. I usually work nights, but I had to pull a double.”

“Night shifts for me too,” I said, hoping to make some sort of connection. “My day job is a night job—bartender.”

This seemed to put her at ease. She nodded and sat down. “Working nights is exhausting.”

“Sure is,” I confirmed.

“So what do you want to know?” she asked as she whipped out a red leather cigarette pouch. After popping the clasp, she paused and asked an obligatory, “You don’t mind?” before tugging her lighter out of a small pocket. We didn’t, but I was surprised by the scent of tobacco smoke. Not many Earthbounds preferred it over valrivia.

After a prompt, she talked reservedly about the elementary school she attended as a child. We weren’t really interested in that, of course, but I encouraged her to reminisce, trying to loosen her up. But once we moved on to junior high, any progress we’d made immediately receded. I worried that we’d never get to the Snatcher, so I pushed a little harder.

“You were attending junior high when your family moved here to the city?” I asked.

She paused, then nodded. “I was fourteen at the time. Ninth grade.”

“When was that, year-wise?”

“Early eighties,” she said, dropping her eyes. “Can’t remember exactly.”

“I bet it was hard to leave friends behind.”

She shrugged. “I didn’t have a lot of friends.”

“Me either when I was that age,” I said. This was true, but my attempt at solidarity didn’t even register. “So . . . why did you move?”

She blew out a cone of smoke and ran her fingers over a crocheted doily that covered her chair’s armrest. “My father got a job in Morella.”

“Do you happen to remember the month you left?” Lon asked.

Cindy gave him a strange look, then crossed her legs and blinked rapidly. “It was in the fall, I think. Why would that matter?”

“Just judging from your age”—which was the same as Lon’s? Dear God, he’d fared better—“you may have lived in La Sirena during a well-known child abduction case. Do you remember hearing about the Sandpiper Park Snatcher?”

Lon pressed his thigh against mine in warning, but I could already tell by the way Cindy’s shoulders tensed that I’d pushed too far. She sniffed a couple of times, then wiped away a bead of sweat from her brow. “What does this have to do with historical . . . what did you say you belonged to?”

“Preservation Society. We’re interested in how the cultural climate of the town influenced the experience of attending school there.” Pretty good improvisation, I thought, but not enough to quell her nerves. Her countenance shifted from wary to full-on suspicious.

Lon immediately took over the interrogation, attempting to calm her with a softer voice. “All of us have memories that we’d prefer to forget, but sometimes good things can come from remembering the past—even the bad parts. Your memories might help someone today. Were you aware that two kids went missing last week in La Sirena?”

Her breathing stilled momentarily. She blinked several times. “No, I hadn’t heard. I don’t keep up with La Sirena anymore.”

“The police think it might be the same person taking kids again,” he said.

The hand holding her cigarette shook. Ashes fell onto the crocheted armrest, but she didn’t notice. We all sat in silence for several seconds, then Cindy suddenly stubbed her cigarette and stood. “Look, I’m sorry, but I can’t talk anymore. I’ve got to go to work, so you need to leave.”

“But you said you just got home from work—”

“I’m tired!” she shouted. Her hands were shaking badly now, and she backed up to the window.

“We didn’t mean to upset you,” I said quickly. “We don’t have to talk about that. Let’s talk about something else.”

She shot me a steely look. “Get out, or I’m calling the police.”

Lon picked up his farming book, handed me my purse, and pushed me toward the door. Clearly he was reading Cindy’s emotions and knew that we weren’t going to get anything else out of her. He dug inside his jacket pocket and retrieved a small blue business card. “If you change your mind and want to talk—”