“Frankie, hey!” Bernadette knocked on Frances’s cheek several times in quick succession.
Frances pushed Bernie’s hand off and opened her eyes.
“Look who’s here.” Bernie stepped out of the way. A young woman, dressed in all black – thrift store cowboy boots, fishnet stockings and a vintage fifties dress – raised her right hand to her shoulder and offered a three-finger salute. Instead of natural blonde, her hair was dyed fire engine red, backcombed and teased into a frantic halo. There were signs of makeup: partially wiped black smudges under her eyes and a red stain on her lips. Frances recognized her immediately.
“I don’t know how I didn’t put it together all these years,” Bernadette said to Frances. “If I’d known her dad was my boss. What a scream that would have been.” She looked a
