Sylvia has only been in town for a month but already she’s managed to establish a routine. Up with the sun, two cups of coffee, at least one cigarette, a shot of vodka to get her through the morning, lunch at Sapsucker, hours and hours and hours of seemingly endless research, drinks she doesn’t bother to count. None of the dots connect. Frustration begins to pique. She starts to think of Tess. She goes down to The Wagon and she starts drinking bourbon. The Wagon is crowded and buzzy and warm -- she can’t say that she likes feeling seen but there isn’t a lot of variety in Crescent Lake. Tonight she’s here earlier than usual and she sips her bourbon (two fingers, neat) unhappily at the bar, pouring over her notes. Attention tickles, hot and unwelcome at the side of her face. She can feel their gaze boring into her; intently curious. She sets her mouth into a hard line and tries to ignore it. Maybe it’s just because she’s new in town. Maybe they’re just looking. But she can’t help but assume that they recognize her: the woman who may or may not have killed her own daughter. “What?” Finally regards them with a cool and level gaze. The iciness maybe a little surprising coming from someone who looks like a Disney Princess. “Can I help you with something? Do you want an autograph? If not could you kindly fuck off?”Â













