Saturday, July 4, 1953

When Liza Mellincamp thinks about the last time she ever saw Violet Sullivan, what comes most vividly to mind is the color of Violet’s Japanese silk kimono, a shade of blue that Liza later learned was called “cerulean,” a word that wasn’t even in her vocabulary when she was fourteen years old. A dragon was embroidered in satin-stitch across the back, its strange dog-shaped face and arched body picked out in lime green and orange. Flames twisted from the dragon’s mouth in curling ribbons of blood red.

That last night, she’d arrived at the Sullivans’ house at 6:00. Violet was going out at 6:15 and, as usual, she wasn’t dressed and hadn’t done her hair. The front door was open, and as Liza approached, Baby, Violet’s three-month-old buff-colored Pomeranian, started yapping in a shrill little doggie voice while she pawed at the screen, punching holes here and there. She had tiny black eyes and a black button nose and a small pink bow affixed to her forehead with stickum of some kind. Someone had given Violet the dog less than a month before, and she’d developed a fierce attachment to it, carrying the dog around in a big straw tote. Liza disliked Baby, and twice when Violet left the dog behind, Liza put her in the coat closet so she wouldn’t have to listen to her bark. She’d gotten the idea from Foley, who disliked the dog even more than she did.

Liza knocked on the door frame, a sound barely audible above the dog’s yap-yap-yap. Violet called out, “Come on in. I’m in the bedroom!”

Liza opened the screen door, pushed the dog aside with her foot, and walked through the living room to the bedroom Violet and Foley shared.