Just after four that afternoon, Jordan Britney Smythe, twelve years old, dashed down the stairs of the school bus, cantered past the neighborhood sign—Farmington Equestrian Estates—switched to what she considered a working trot and was home in forty seconds. She threw down her backpack and ran up the stairs to her bedroom, tugging at her school uniform. Her riding boots, still new enough to have the gleam from the box, glided onto her feet. Her mother had bought them for her after she was accepted to Lorraine’s Riding Academy. She clunked downstairs and outside.
“Hello, Jordan!” her mother called from the sunroom. Jordan waved from the yard; she could see Mom, pruning shears in hand as she moved among the plants.
“I’m at the barn!”
The afternoon air was still cool; she should have worn
