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of doors, parking meters, manhole covers. She walked around a stack of empty cardboard boxes, past the mattress, to the only other doorway.
    A bathroom, tiled in black and white, and surprisingly clean. The bottom edge of the closed shower curtain hung inside the tub. The curtain bulged in one spot. Dani shook her head as her vision blurred, took another breath and held it, then opened the curtain.
    Her breath rushed out in pent-up relief. The tub overflowed with dirty laundry—women’s clothes mixed in with men’s jeans and shirts. Dani lifted a white T-shirt. Beneath a tear in the ribbed collar a distorted, black-outlined 7 emblazoned the front.
    She ordered her mind to think like a reporter. She’d been on police calls. They’d never affected her like this.
    It’s never easy when you’ve got a personal connection.
    She closed the shower curtain and took in the details of the small room. A cardboard box sat on the floor, haphazardly filled with cosmetic bottles, brushes, shampoos, and curling irons. In the open medicine cabinet, two shelves held men’s deodorant, aftershave, toothpaste, and razors. Two shelves were empty. With the tip of her finger she opened cupboards and drawers. More empty shelves. Had Miguel come home and caught China packing?
    Streaks of dampness remained on the counter. Dani could picture a hysterical girl scrubbing her hands.
    Had she found him dead or witnessed the horror?
    An icy chill crept up her back. Did the police believe it was suicide?
    The insanity of being there hit her full force. She backed out of the bathroom and retraced her steps, not looking at the mattress this time. Untucking the tail of her blouse, she wiped the door handle on both sides, ran down the steps, looked around, and did the same with the outside door.
    Heart slamming her ribs, she ran toward the alley. Two garbage cans overflowed with papers, clothes, and books. A plastic milk crate sat on the ground between them, filled with spiral notebooks. The front one, every inch of its cover decorated with ink drawings, was labeled “Algebra.” Dani bent, flipping through them. West Civ., Psych., Spanish. Wedged between them was a black leather book, worn and frayed at the corners. M Y DIARY was lettered in muted gold across the front.
    Looking both ways again, she grabbed the crate and ran to Vito’s car. She tossed the basket in the backseat, slid behind the wheel, and drove around the corner.
    In front of the Laundromat, a little blond girl rode a bike with training wheels, a twenty-something man close behind. At the end of the block, an elderly man shuffled out of the grocery store, newspaper under one arm.
    The dash clock read 5:56. She drove around the block and parked on the one-way street next to the Italian restaurant. China would return sometime, if only to gather her things and run.
    Until the sun went down, she’d have a perfect view.

    September 12, 1924
    Toying with the broken strap of her overalls, Francie compared the gown she’d just sketched with the one in McCall’s. “Mine’s better,” she mouthed.
    Downstairs, the screen door opened and bounced against the frame. Daddy’s barn boots stomped the wood floor. “You’ll be going to Mrs. Johnson’s tonight?”
    “Of course,” Mama answered, her voice tight with the strain of Friday. “I would appreciate it if you would tell Francie to go with me.”
    “She’s fine here.”
    “I’d rather she not—”
    “She’s fifteen, Signe. Not a baby. She understands what I need to do to keep the farm.”
    “But if there’s trouble…”
    Daddy laughed. “If there’s trouble, Francie just may be the one to break it up.”
    Mama huffed the kind of sigh that ruffled the hair hanging over her forehead. Francie heard her gathering her things. She scrambled off the bed, crawled through the open window, and jumped onto the roof of the shed.
    When Mama poked her head into the shed, Francie was sitting on the three-legged stool, laying the bowl ring