“Anything else you want to tell us?” I ignore the detective’s question the same way the newspaper ignored the fact that Beth wasn’t just a dancer. She was a friend, a sister, a daughter. She didn’t just dance at night, she also got iced coffee every morning—no matter the weather—from her favorite cafe where the baristas knew the exact milk-to-coffee ratio she liked. The police predict a serial killer, but Beth had liked to predict when a red light would turn green, and any time her countdown was right, she squealed and slammed on the accelerator while saying, “It’s my time to shine!”
