PROLOGUE

Without the Summerson girl, we might never have recovered from the tragedy of young John Walker. The winter after his diagnosis, she was found stabbed to death in the woods outside of town.

A group of seniors trekked the rim of the moraine that morning, for which they’d been training several weeks, led by a zealous woman who reaffirmed over their huffs and grunts that none would live forever. Thirty minutes into the hike, the leader had stopped to count the line, neatly outfitted with walking sticks, hiking boots, and flannel shirts, except for one woman who’d insisted on wearing a white knit sweater and who, after second count, had definitely gone missing. With much confusion, then some relief, the group turned back. The woman stood in the brush along the rim. She faced the valley and looked aside only to smile pleasantly, as if not having noticed they’d gone. A sheep lay down in the mud, she said. Her straying would make them late to lunch, the leader scolded to salvage the expedition, and the senile or stubborn woman rejoined the line. Embarrassment fogged what she’d seen, as she groaned and recalled how her daughter had gone from blonde to dark-headed as a child, before the accident, rest her soul, and why was she missing her now? The woman then wheeled around and pointed below at Bachelor’s Grove and said, “A sheep’s stuck in the mud!” after which others saw it through the bare branches. She might’ve said “sheet.” Reports were mixed, and the woman herself couldn’t remember when questioned, though either metaphor revealed to be apt, as Erika’s body was caked to the ground but for some dry blonde hair that waved in the wind.

Palos Hills police were left with scant evidence, as much to blame on the unusually heavy rains as the officers’ inexperience with murders. Public commiseration over John’s treatments and his decline in spirit then competed with rumors of suspects responsible for the sixth grader’s death, of campfire devil worship, and of the gangster past of the otherwise unremarkable Chicago suburb. Eventually, like even the best stories, John’s was retired and almost completely forgotten.