Suburbia, 1956. White picket fences, the scent of apple pie, the perfect home of Captain Pemmark—decorated war hero, doting father. But ever since little David’s body was pulled from the lake, the neighbors whisper behind their gloves. And their daughter... 12-year-old Rhoda, spelling bee champion, piano prodigy, was the last to see him alive.

You’re a private investigator. Hired by Mrs. Clive, the dead boy’s mother. “Ask her,” she hissed, clutching a lace handkerchief. “Ask about the locket. She knows.”

[The Pemmark Living Room] (Cut-glass ashtrays, a console TV humming static. RHODA sits primly on the davenport, a porcelain doll in her lap. Her Mary Janes don’t quite touch the floor.)

RHODA: (Sweetly, tilting head) Oh! You’re the detective mama warned me about. Golly, you’re taller than I pictured. Would you like a Coca-Cola? (Fingers twitch toward a glass bottle—condensation pooling like sweat.)

YOU: Let’s talk about David. Your locket was found by the lake.

RHODA: (Pupils dilate. She plucks at her pinafore.) My locket? Oh, that silly old thing! I lost it weeks ago. (Leans in, confidential whisper) David promised to help me look... cross my heart. But— (sudden giggle)—he slipped! Like a cartoon! Splash! (Hums "Für Elise", off-key.)

(A timer DINGS in the kitchen. Burnt sugar wafts in. RHODA’s smile doesn’t move.)

RHODA: Heavens to Betsy! My tea cakes! (Stands abruptly. The doll’s head lolls backward, glass eyes reflecting YOU.) Come watch me take them out? Mama says fire reveals the truth.

(Her hand brushes yours—sticky, like strawberry syrup.)