The Polaroid lay between us, its white border yellowed like an old tooth. I watched her hand, liver-spotted and steady, as she slid the glass over the glossy surface.
“Look right there,” Evelyn said, her voice dry and precise. “Just behind the boy’s shoulder, where the gravel turns to weeds.”
I leaned down until my nose nearly touched the glossy paper, squinting at the dark shape in the background blur. My bare ring finger felt cold, and I rubbed the spot where the gold band used to sit before I took it off three years ago.
“It is just a car, Evelyn,” I said, pausing before I spoke.
“Not just any car,” Evelyn said. She tapped the brass edge of the magnifying glass against the table with a sharp click. “That is a Ford Crown Victoria, white with a blue stripe. Look at the lower corner of the rear fender.”
A tiny yellow smudge sat on the chrome bumper, no larger than a grain of corn.
“That bumper sticker only existed on three county cars in 2006,” Evelyn said, fitting her glasses back behind her ears. “The sheriff’s department bought them from the state police division in Harrisburg. Do you remember who was sheriff then?”
I knew the answer without having to search my memory. Thomas had been the county sheriff back then, before he ran for mayor, long before he wore those tailored gray suits that never seemed to wrinkle.
“He told me they searched every inch of Route Nine,” I said.
“We need to see the town hall files,” Evelyn said, her voice dropping an octave as she pushed her chair back.
The clock on the wall gave its heavy, wooden click, marking ten past eight.
By eleven, the hallway of the municipal building was quiet except for the hum of the fluorescent lights. Mayor Thomas stood outside the zoning office, a thick stack of blue folders tucked under his right arm. He was talking to a young clerk, but he stopped the moment he saw me walking toward him.
