On my next grocery visit, I was grabbing coconut milk, and a woman nearby said, “You know, the trendiness of almond and coconut milk is killing milk prices.” She went on to tell me her father was a dairy farmer. “It’s not milk by definition, you know,” she’d said. “You can’t milk a nut.” Oh, the jokes Trevor and I shared over that one. Her small grumble fortified our marriage, each nut-milking fit of laughter was another slab of mortar to our relationship.

“We could probably visit a farm if you want, Emily.” Her little hand was sweaty in mine. Only 8:45 a.m. and the September sun was already oppressive.

“I would love to milk a cow. Or ride a horse. Both! I would love both. Can we get a kitten?”

Had Trevor mentioned a pet to her too?

Approaching the front doors, I didn’t want to give her a hard “No”, and send her into her first day sobbing. “Um, let’s talk about it later. Hey, I see your teacher. You remember her name?”

“Miss Baker.”

Two teachers stood outside, lining up their students, ready to whisk them away. I gave Emily a big hug and handed her off to Miss Baker. Charise Baker wore a pink sleeveless blouse, a floral chiffon skirt, and clean pink heels. A small heel, but still, a heel. Arms slender with long yoga muscles. She had a toothy smile and a personality you’d describe as bubbly.

I stood on the periphery, like the other moms, until the teachers led the kids, all wearing oversized backpacks printed with TV show characters and glitter glazed in shiny plastic, into the school. Once they were properly swallowed by the low-roofed building, I felt a surge of freedom and nerves, and my pace quickened toward my car.

Alone for the first time since we got here. It was time to get answers.

My hands sweaty and cold, I called the non-emergency number for the local police department. It was unlike me to be proactive, a go-getter, a take-charger, but this gruesome story about my mom was like a twitchy, unpredictable hand grasping my heart.

“Hunther Police Department,” a woman said, tired. Maybe she was on the tail-end of her shift.

“Hi, um, I have an odd question. It’s about the Dawn Young case. It happened in 1991.”

“I’ve heard of the case, but I was in diapers then,” she said, no humor.

“Well, I’m researching the story, but I can’t find anything online or much in the library.”

“You work for the Beacon News in Yellow Valley?” No suspicion in her voice.

“Yeah,” I lied. “Are there police officers working in your department now who were working then?”