This was the only part of Detective Montgomery’s long-winded scientific explanation about DNA and estimated time of death and victim age that I fully understood as she announced the good news at Barkalicious Boutique. While she still couldn’t guarantee certainty, instantaneous relief washed over me that it was most likely not Vera. Most likely not didn’t offer the fullest extent of comfort I wanted, but it was promising. The most reassuring words one mother could hope for, yet the biggest heartbreak for another. It almost felt wrong to celebrate the news as I hugged the detective in gratitude, while another mother out there crumbled to her knees. The possibility of me being that other mother someday was sobering, but for now I would be grateful and keep standing.

When I pulled up my driveway, the detective’s unease about the voicemail followed me home. “If that hit-and-run hadn’t just happened,” she admitted, “I would consider this just another media junkie looking for attention. Especially with Halloween around the corner, which brings out the crazy in some people.”

Like Eliot and Sydney, who had put the finishing touches on their costumes after ransacking the boxes of vintage Halloween decorations dating to Vera’s girlhood and plastering the house with them. They picked out the household’s most capacious pillowcases to hold the pounds of goodies they anticipated getting when I took them trick-or-treating door to door in Oakmont. Cute little plastic pumpkin buckets, they informed me—besides being corny—were woefully inadequate.

“But I think we need to look into this further,” Detective Montgomery had added. “I’ll see if my tech people can trace the call. For now, try not to worry about it.”

As if I could just turn the worry off. It was the only emotion living inside me anymore.

In the backseat the husky whined and whimpered, ready to run. I parked Oliver’s car in his usual spot and led the dog around the front yard on her leash, letting her take in all the smells and mark the territory—first the rabbit bush, then a hibernating rose bush—as her own while I considered any possible way to hide her from Oliver. But he was already trotting down the front porch steps when I emerged from behind a dormant hydrangea.

“Tell me that dog wasn’t just now getting hair all through my car.” His words shot out in pellets. “And it better belong to someone.”

“She does now!” I teased. “C’mon, Ollie, you’re going to turn this sweet face away?” I bent down and let the dog lick my chin.

“Not another dog. Absolutely not. Take it to the shelter. We’ve got enough to deal with without adding another animal to care for.”