Krissi asked it with all the concern of finding a new gynecologist.

"Can we get your dad's address?" Lyle asked.

Krissi stood up, about twenty minutes after I would have. "I told you, we're not in touch," she said.

Lyle started to say something when I turned to him, poked a finger toward his chest and mouthed, Shut up. He opened his mouth, shut it, looked at the girl onstage, who was now pantomiming fucking the floor, and walked out the door.

It was too late, though, Krissi was already saying she had to go meet someone. As I was settling up with the bartender she asked me if she could borrow twenty dollars.

"I'll buy Colleen some dinner with it," she lied. Then she quickly changed it to fifty. "I just haven't cashed my work check yet. I will totally pay you back." She made an elaborate play out of getting a sheet of paper and a pen for me, told me to write down my address and she'd totally totally mail me the money.

I mentally put the cash on Lyle's tab, forked it over to Krissi, her counting it in front of me like I might shortchange her. She opened the big maw of her purse and a child's sippy cup rolled out onto the floor.

"Leave it," she waved at me when I bent to pick it up, and so I left it.

Then I took the greasy scrap of paper and wrote down my address and my name. Libby Day. My name is Libby Day, you lying whore.

Patty Day

JANUARY 2, 1985

1:50 P.M.

Patty wondered how many hours she and Diane had spent I I rumbling around in cars together: a thousand? two thousand? Maybe if you added it all up, a sum total of two years, put end to end, the way mattress companies always did: You spend a third of your life asleep, why not do it on a ComfortCush? Eight years standing in lines, they say. Six years peeing. Put like that, life was grim. Two years waiting in the doctor's office, but a total of three hours watching Debby at breakfast laughing until milk started dribbling down her chin. Two weeks eating soppy pancakes her girls made for her, the middle still sour with batter. Only one hour staring in amazement as Ben unconsciously tucked his baseball cap behind his ears in a gesture mirror-perfect to what his grandpa did, his grandpa dead when Ben was just a baby. Six rumbling around in cars together: a thousand? two thousand? Maybe if you added it all up, a sum total of two years, put end to end, the way mattress companies always did: You spend a third of your life asleep, why not do it on a ComfortCush? Eight years standing in lines, they say. Six years peeing. Put like that, life was grim. Two years waiting in the doctor's office, but a total of three hours watching Debby at breakfast laughing until milk started dribbling down her chin. Two weeks eating soppy pancakes her girls made for her, the middle still sour with batter. Only one hour staring in amazement as Ben unconsciously tucked his baseball cap behind his ears in a gesture mirror-perfect to what his grandpa did, his grandpa dead when Ben was just a baby. Six years years of hauling manure, though, three years of ducking calls from bill collectors. Maybe a month of having sex, maybe a day of having good sex. She'd slept with three men in her life. Her gentle high school boyfriend; Runner, the hotshot who stole her from her gentle high school boyfriend and left her with four (wonderful) children; and a guy she dated for a few months some-where in the years after Runner left. They'd slept together three times with the kids at home. It always ended awkwardly. Ben, sulky and possessive at age eleven, would park himself in the kitchen so he could glower at them as they left her bedroom in the morning, Patty worrying about the guy's semen on her, that smell so stark and embarrassing with your children still in their pajamas. It was clearly not going to work from the start, and she'd never gotten the courage up to try again. Libby would graduate from high school in eleven years, so maybe then. She'd be forty-three, which was right when women were supposed to peak sexually. Or something. Maybe it was menopause. of hauling manure, though, three years of ducking calls from bill collectors. Maybe a month of having sex, maybe a day of having good sex. She'd slept with three men in her life. Her gentle high school boyfriend; Runner, the hotshot who stole her from her gentle high school boyfriend and left her with four (wonderful) children; and a guy she dated for a few months some-where in the years after Runner left. They'd slept together three times with the kids at home. It always ended awkwardly. Ben, sulky and possessive at age eleven, would park himself in the kitchen so he could glower at them as they left her bedroom in the morning, Patty worrying about the guy's semen on her, that smell so stark and embarrassing with your children still in their pajamas. It was clearly not going to work from the start, and she'd never gotten the courage up to try again. Libby would graduate from high school in eleven years, so maybe then. She'd be forty-three, which was right when women were supposed to peak sexually. Or something. Maybe it was menopause.

"We heading to the school?" Diane asked, and Patty pulled out of her three-second trance to remember their horrible errand, their mission: find her son and, what? Hide him away til this blew over? Drive him to the little girl's house and straighten it all out? In family movies, the mom always caught the son stealing, and she'd march him back over to the drugstore and get him to hand over the candy on a shaky palm, and beg forgiveness. She knew Ben shoplifted some. Before he started locking his door, she'd occasionally find strange, pocket-sized items in his room. A candle, batteries, a plastic packet of toy soldiers. She'd never said anything, which was horrible. Part of her didn't want to deal with it-drive all the way into town, and talk to some kid who got paid minimum wage and didn't care anyway. And the other part (even worse) thought, Why the hell not? The boy had so little, why not keep pretending this was something a friend gave him? Let him have this stolen trifle, a pebble-plunk of a wrongdoing in the grand scheme.

"No, he wouldn't go to the school. He only works Sundays."

"Well, where?"

They came to a stoplight, swaying on a line like laundry. The road dead-ended onto the pasture of a land-rich family that lived in Colorado. Turn right and they were heading to Kinnakee proper- the town, the school. Turn left and they were going deeper into Kansas, all farmland, where Ben's two friends lived, those shy Future Farmers of America who couldn't bear to ask for Ben when she picked up the phone.

"Take a left, we'll go see the Muehlers."

"He still hangs around with them? That's good. No one could think those boys would do anything ... weird."

"Oh, because Ben would?"

Diane sighed and turned left.

"I'm on your side, P."

The Muehler brothers had dressed as farmers for Halloween every year since birth, their parents driving them into Kinnakee in the same wide-body truck, the boys deposited on Bulhardt Avenue for trick-or-treating in their tiny John Deere baseball caps and overalls while the parents drank coffee at the diner. The Muehler brothers, like their parents, talked only about alfalfa and wheat and weather, and went to church on Sunday, where they prayed for things that were probably crop-related. The Muehlers were good people with no imagination, with personalities so tied to the land, even their skin seemed to take on the ridges and furrows of Kansas.

"I know." Patty reached to put her hand on Diane's just as Diane shifted gears, so her hand hung just above her sister's and then went back to her lap.

"Oh you bleeping jerk!" Diane said to a car ahead of her, rolling along at twenty miles an hour and deliberately going slower as Diane closed in on the bumper. She swerved up to pass them and Patty stared rigidly ahead, even though she could feel the driver's face on her, a murky moon in her peripheral. Who was this person? Had they heard the news? Is that why they were staring, maybe even pointing? There's the woman who raised that boy There's the woman who raised that boy. The Day boy. A hundred phones were rattling this morning, if Diane had heard last night. At home her three girls were probably sitting in front of the TV, turning from cartoons to the blaring telephone, which they'd been told to pick up in case Ben called. They seemed unlikely to follow that instruction: they were strung out with the fear of the morning. If anyone dropped by, they'd find three unattended, teary kids, age ten and under, huddled on the living room floor, cringing at the noise.

"Maybe one of us should have stayed home ... in case," Patty said.

"You're not going anywhere by yourself while this is going on, and I don't know where to go. This is the right thing. Michelle's a big girl. I watched you when I was younger'n her."

But that was back when people still did that, Patty thought. Back when people went out for a whole night and left the kids on their own and no one thought anything of it. In the '50s and '60s, out on that quiet old prairie where nothing ever happened. Now little girls weren't supposed to ride bikes alone or go anywhere in groups of less than three. Patty had attended a party thrown by one of Diane's work friends, like a Tupperware party, but with rape whistles and mace instead of wholesome plastic containers. She'd made a joke about what kind of lunatic would drive all the way out to Kinnakee to attack someone. A blond woman she'd just met looked up from her new pepper-spray keychain and said, "A friend of mine was raped once." Patty had bought several cans of mace out of guilt.

"People think I'm a bad mother, that's why this is happening."

"No one thinks you're a bad mother. You're superwoman as far as I'm concerned: you keep the farm going, get four kids to school every day, and don't drink a gallon of bourbon to do it."

Patty immediately thought of the freezing cold morning two weeks ago, when she almost wept with exhaustion. Actually putting on clothes and driving the girls to school seemed an entirely remote possibility. So she let them all stay home and watch ten hours of soap operas and game shows with her. She made poor Ben ride his bike, shooed him out the door with a promise she'd petition again to get the school bus to come to them next year.

"I'm not a good good mother." mother."

"Hush."

THE MUEHLERS' HOME was on a decent chunk of land, four hundred acres at least. The house was tiny and looked like a buttercup, a swipe of yellow against miles of green winter wheat and snow. It was blowing even harder than before now; the forecast said it would snow through the night, and then would come sudden springlike temperatures. That promise was wedged in her brain: sudden springlike temperatures. was on a decent chunk of land, four hundred acres at least. The house was tiny and looked like a buttercup, a swipe of yellow against miles of green winter wheat and snow. It was blowing even harder than before now; the forecast said it would snow through the night, and then would come sudden springlike temperatures. That promise was wedged in her brain: sudden springlike temperatures.

They drove up the skinny, unwelcoming strip of road leading to the house, past a tiller sitting just inside the barn like an animal. Its hooked blades cast claw shadows on the ground. Diane made a sinus noise she always resorted to when she was uncomfortable, a fake clearing of the throat to fill the silence. Neither of them looked at the other as they got out of the car. Attentive black grackles perched in the trees, cawing continually, ill-natured, noisy birds. One of them flew past, a silvery trail of Christmas tinsel fluttering from its beak. But otherwise the place was immobile, no motors of any kind, no gates clanking shut, no TV within, just the silence of land packed under snow.

"Don't see Ben's bike," was all Diane said as they banged the doorknocker.

"Could be around back."

Ed answered the door. Jim, Ed, and Ben were all in the same grade, but the brothers weren't twins, one of them had flunked at least once, maybe twice. She thought it was Ed. He goggled at her for a second, a short kid of only 5'4" or so, but with a man's athletic build. He shoved his hands in his pockets and looked behind him.

"Well, hi, Mrs. Day."

"Hi, Ed. Sorry to bother you on Christmas break."

"No, no problem."

"I'm looking for Ben-is he here? Have you seen him?"

"Be-en?" He said it in two syllables, like he was tickled at the idea. "Ah, no, we ain't seen Ben in ... well, I don't think we seen him this whole year. Aside from school. He's been hanging around with a different group now."

"What group?" asked Diane, and Ed looked at her for the first time.

"Uh, we-ell ..."

She could see Jim's silhouette approaching the door, backlit by the picture window in the kitchen. He lumbered toward them, bigger and wider than his brother.

"Can we help you, Mrs. Day?" He nudged his face in, then his torso, slowly moving his brother to the side. The two of them effectively closed off the doorway. It made Patty want to crane her neck around them and peek inside.

"I was just asking Ed if you two'd seen Ben today, and he said you hadn't been seeing much of him this whole school year."

"Mmm, no. Wish you'd phoned, could have saved you some time."

"We need to find him soon, you have any idea where we can find him, it's sort of a family emergency," Diane interrupted.

"Mmm, no," said Jim again. "Wish we could help."

"You can't give us even a name of who he spends time with? Surely you must know that."

Ed had swung to the background now, so he was calling from the shadow of the living room.

"Tell her to phone 1-800-Devils-R-Us!" he cackled.

"What?"

"Nothing." Jim looked at the door knob in his hand, debating whether to start closing it.

"Jim, can you help us, please?" Patty murmured. "Please?"

The boy frowned, tapped the point of a cowboy boot against the floor like a ballerina, refused to raise his eyes. "He hangs out with, like, the Devil crowd."

"What does that mean?"

"Some older guy heads it, I don't know his name. They do a lot of drugs, peyote or whatever, and kill cows and sh-stuff. That's just what I heard. They don't go to our school, the kids in it. Except for Ben, I guess."

"Well, you must know the name of someone," Patty coaxed.

"I really don't, Mrs. Day. We steer clear of that stuff. I'm sorry, we tried to stay friends with Ben, but. We go to church here, my parents, they run a tight ship. Er ... I'm real sorry."

He looked at the ground, and stopped talking, and Patty couldn't think of anything else to ask.

"OK, Jim, thanks."

He shut the door and before they could turn around, from inside the house they heard a bellow: Asshole, why'd you gotta say that! Asshole, why'd you gotta say that! followed by a heavy bang against the wall. followed by a heavy bang against the wall.

Libby Day

NOW

Back in the car, Lyle said only three words. "What a nightmare." In reply, I said, mmmm mmmm. Krissi reminded me of me. Grasping and anxious, always bundling things aside for future use. That packet of chips. We scroungers always like little packets of food because people give them up with less hassle.

Lyle and I drove for twenty minutes without saying much, until finally he said, in his summing-up, newscaster voice, "So obviously she's lying about Ben molesting her. I think she lied to her dad too. I think Lou Cates went nuts, killed your family, and then later, he found out she'd lied. He killed an innocent family for nothing. Hence, his own family disintegrates. Lou Cates disappears, starts drinking."

"Hence?" I nipped at him.

"It's a solid theory. Don't you think?"

"I think you should not come on any more of these interviews. It's embarrassing."

"Libby, I'm financing this whole thing."

"Well, you're not helping it."

"Sorry," he said, and then we stopped talking. As the lights of Kansas City turned the sky a sick orange in the distance, Lyle said, without looking at me, "It's a solid theory though, right?" he said, and then we stopped talking. As the lights of Kansas City turned the sky a sick orange in the distance, Lyle said, without looking at me, "It's a solid theory though, right?"

"Everything's a theory, that's why it's a mystery!" mystery!" I mimicked him. "Just a great mystery, Who Killed The Days?" I proclaimed, brightly. After a few minutes, I said grudgingly. "I think it's an OK theory, I think we should look at Runner too." I mimicked him. "Just a great mystery, Who Killed The Days?" I proclaimed, brightly. After a few minutes, I said grudgingly. "I think it's an OK theory, I think we should look at Runner too."

"Fine by me. Although I'm still going to track down Lou Cates."

"Be my guest."

I dropped him back outside Sarah's, not offering to take him home, Lyle standing on the curb like a kid baffled that his parents can really bear leaving him at camp. I got home late and cranky and anxious to count my money. I'd made $1,000 so far from the Kill Club, with another $500 that Lyle owed me for Krissi, even though Krissi clearly would have talked to anybody. But even as I thought that, I knew it wasn't true. None of those Kill Club misfits could have made that work with Krissi, I thought. She talked to me because we had the same chemicals in our blood: shame, anger, greed. Unjustified nostalgia.

I'd earned my money, I thought, resentful for no reason. Lyle seemed completely fine with paying me. That's what I did, though- I had angry, defensive conversations in my head, got mad at things that hadn't even happened yet. Yet.

I'd earned my money (now I felt calmer), and if I heard from Runner, if I talked to Runner, I'd earn a lot more money and be set for a good four months. If I lived very still.

Make that five months: by the time I got home, Lyle had already left a message saying some local Kill Creeps wanted to have a swap meet, buy some of my family's "memorabilia." Magda would host, if I was interested. Magda the cave troll who'd drawn Devil horns on my photo. Yes, Magda, I would love to be a guest in your home, where do you keep your silver again Yes, Magda, I would love to be a guest in your home, where do you keep your silver again?

I clicked off the answering machine, which I'd stolen from a roommate two moves ago. I thought of Krissi and knew her house was probably filled with other people's crap too. I had a stolen answering machine, a nearly full set of pocketed restaurant silverware, and a half-dozen salt-and-pepper shakers, including the new pair, from Tim-Clark's that I couldn't manage to transfer from the hall table to the kitchen. In one corner of my living room, by my old TV set, is a box with more than a hundred small bottles of lotion I've swiped. I keep them because I like to look at the lotions all together, pink and purple and green. I know this would look crazy to anyone who came to my home, but no one does, and I like them too much to get rid of them. My mom's hands were always rough and dry, she was constantly oiling them, to no avail. It was one of our favorite ways to tease her: "Oh mom don't touch, you're like an alligator!" The church we fitfully attended kept lotion in the women's room that she said smelled like roses: we'd all take turns squirting and sniffing our hands, complimenting each other on our ladylike scent.

No phone call from Diane. She'd have gotten my message by now, and she hadn't called. That seemed strange. Diane always made it easy for me to apologize. Even after this latest round of silent treatment- six years. Guess I should have autographed my book for her.

I turned around to the other set of boxes, the under-the-stairs boxes that had grown more ominous the more I let myself think about the murders. It's just stuff, I told myself. It cannot hurt you.

When I was fourteen, I thought a lot about killing myself-it's a hobby today, but at age fourteen it was a vocation. On a September morning, just after school started, I'd gotten Diane's .44 Magnum and held it, babylike, in my lap for hours. What an indulgence it would be, to just blow off my head, all my mean spirits disappearing with a gun blast, like blowing a seedy dandelion apart. But I thought about Diane, and her coming home to my small torso and a red wall, and I couldn't do it. It's probably why I was so hateful to her, she kept me from what I wanted the most. I just couldn't do it to her, though, so I made a bargain with myself: If I still feel this bad on February 1, I will kill myself. And it was just as bad on February 1, but again I made the bargain: If it's this bad May 1, I'll do it. And so on. I'm still here.

I looked at the boxes and made a quieter kind of bargain: If I can't stand doing this anymore in twenty minutes, I'll burn the whole lot.

The first box came apart easily, one side collapsing as soon as I pulled off the tape. Inside, at the top of the pile, was a concert T-shirt for The Police that was my mom's, food-stained and extremely soft.

Eighteen minutes.

Below that was a rubberbanded bunch of notebooks, all Debby's. I flipped through random pages: Harry S Truman was the 33rd American president and from Missouri.The heart is the pump of the body it keeps blood going all over the body.

Under that was a pile of notes, from Michelle to me, from me to Debby, from Debby to Michelle. Sifting through these, I plucked out a birthday card with an ice-cream sundae on the front, its cherry made with red sequins.

Dear Debby, wrote my mom in her cramped handwriting. wrote my mom in her cramped handwriting.

We are so lucky to have such a sweet, kind, helpful girl in our family. You are my cherry on top! Mom She never wrote Mommy, I thought, we never called her that even as kids. I want my mommy, I want my mommy, I thought. We never said that. I thought. We never said that. I want my mom I want my mom. I felt something loosen in me, that shouldn't have loosened. A stitch come undone.

Fourteen minutes.