“We need to call someone,” he said.
“The police already closed the case forty years ago.”
“Then we find someone who can reopen it.” He picked up the photograph from the dresser again.
“This photo has a date.
The note has her handwriting.
That’s evidence, Uncle.
That’s not nothing.”
I looked down at the pages in my lap.
“She cried at the memorial,” I said.
“She stood right next to me and she cried.”
Daniel didn’t answer that.
He didn’t need to.
He was already reaching for his phone.
The detective’s name was Harlow.
She was in her fifties, with short grey hair and the kind of stillness that told you she had heard worse things than whatever you were about to say.
Daniel had found her through a friend — she was retired from the state police and now did private investigative work.
She came to Daniel’s house the following morning and sat at the kitchen table with a legal pad and a cup of coffee she barely touched.
