He asked my mother’s name, and my father’s, and when I said Emmerson Marsden, but he died twenty-six years ago, the detective went very still, the way a man goes still when a piece drops into a place he did not expect.

“Ms.

Marsden,” he said carefully.

“I’m going to need you to sit down and tell me everything you remember about your father’s death.”

Chapter 10 — What I Remembered

I told Kingsbury what I remembered, which was almost nothing, and that was the strange part.