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Before Tammy could protest, Bridget turned to me again. “Let’s talk about what we think Handel Davies has planned for you tomorrow,” she said dramatically. Put her elbow on the table and rested her head in her hand, all dreamy-eyed. “Maybe he’ll take you out on his father’s fishing boat. He’ll take you out on the water, and then he’ll ravish you!”
    “Carried away much, B?” Michaela said as we all laughed. Michaela gave me a knowing look. “Maybe he’ll take you to an extra-special street corner for Natty Lights and cigs as the sun sets.”
    “You’re a bitch,” I said, but I was smiling. Her joke meant she was coming around.
    “I still don’t understand why you think Seamus likes me,” Tammy said, as though the rest of us hadn’t already moved on, which lightened the mood even more.
    As we joked and gossiped, our previous conversation about the McCallens faded far into the background, almost too far to remember. But after the waitress cleared our empty glasses and we paid the check, Michaela stopped me before I could head off on my way home.
    “My father wants you to come down to the station again. See if you remember anything new.” Her voice was low, like she meant this to be soothing. This request was anything but. “Jane?”
    I shrugged. Then nodded. Even with all the other break-ins before mine, I was the only one the thieves had held hostage. Not the way a girl wants to be singled out. But I agreed, because the timing of the request was eerie. For the first time since that night in February, maybe I had something real to report.
    “Okay, I’ll go,” I told her. “Not until the day after tomorrow, though,” I added, before saying my good-byes. I didn’t want anything to spoil my night with Handel, and seeing Michaela’s father, well, it would. Of course it would.

FIVE
    W HEN I GOT HOME from the beach the next day, my mother was sitting at the kitchen counter eating some of the leftover chicken. Pulling at the meat of a drumstick. She smiled at me. “Did you go for a swim?”
    “More than one.” I pulled out a stool and joined her on the other side of the counter. Glanced at the clock by the sink. Six fifteen. “What’s up with you?”
    “Sewing. Beading. Bustling. The usual.” She licked a finger. “Mrs. Levinson’s a saint.”
    “I know. It’s good even the next day. I had some for lunch.”
    My mother swallowed another bite. “Saint of Roasted Chickens.”
    I laughed. “Yeah.”
    “So.” Her eyebrows arched. “Anything you want to tell me?”
    I took a deep breath. “Yes. So. I’m hanging out with Handel Davies tonight.”
    My mother offered me the wing of the chicken. “Interesting.”
    I shook my head. She shrugged and took a bite of it herself. “Apparently, more than I realized,” I said.
    She wiped her mouth with a napkin. “Well, you know the people around here.”
    “Yup. Lived here my whole life and all.”
    Another smile from my mother. “Raised you the entire time, too.”
    “Raised me to be a smart girl,” I said, looking at her directly so she knew I meant what I said.
    “That’s what I like to hear.”
    “He’ll be here at eight, Mom.”
    She looked me up and down. Took in my tank top and short-shorts. “You’re going like that?”
    “Nah. I’ll change,” I said. “I should, right?”
    “You should.” She got up. Washed her hands in the sink. Dried them. “I’ve got something you could wear.”
    “Really?”
    “Of course. Follow me.”
    My mother’s room was small. Compact, but tidy. Bed made perfectly. Italian lace curtains flowing alongside the windows. Not a piece of clothing peeking out from a drawer or draped over the chair in the corner. Order was essential when you lived in a tiny house, she always said. Order was important for a good life.
    She opened the closet, searching. I sat down on the bed, careful not to muss it. Watched her go from one dress to the next. Noticed the way her dark hair flowed long and thick