“Look, there’s a certain risk to DNA testing being as good as it is now. You touch a doorknob, and ten years later, they can pick up the DNA. That little smudge on the sofa wasn’t enough to pull DNA from at the time. It was only when they went retesting everything with new technology after Summer’s arrest that they got it. And then you and your mom had them dump all that into the database as a condition to settling. And that was your right, granted, and you were looking out for Jerry—”

“But now you can understand why the cops there are saying ‘I told you so.’”

“People move around, Ellie, especially from Wichita, as you and Jess certainly know. Sometimes it feels like the highways here only run one way. Your DNA was probably all over other people’s houses when you were kids, and now it’s all over New York City—especially your brother’s, if I had to guess.”

She found herself smiling. She only talked to Steve a few times a year, plus the occasional quick text message, but he sent them overly generous Christmas checks when he got a good bonus at work, and sometimes he’d even tack on a side trip to New York when he visited his brother in Boston. Like the best kinds of aunts and uncles, Steve was often more willing to see and to accept imperfections in Jess and Ellie than were their own parents. When Jess got caught smoking pot in the alley behind the high school, Steve vouched for him to the school resource officer, saving him from a drug bust. He gave Jess the required lecture, but never told their mother about it.

“Speaking of which . . .” She’d turned the corner to spot a familiar silhouette leaning against the brick exterior of Plug Uglies. From the ground up: black ankle boots, black jeans, black Clash T-shirt, cigarette in mouth. Jess, her first call after seeing Lindsay today. “I’m about to meet him.”

“Tell him I said rock on.”

“I will, and I’ll keep you posted if I find anything new.”

“And vice versa. Your dad would be damn proud of you, Ellie. Both of you.”

Jess greeted her with a nod and a smoke-filled exhale.

“What happened to the Nicorette?” she asked. Her big brother had started smoking—to her knowledge, at least—when he was fourteen. A quarter century or so later, he was still at it.

“That you decided to buy for me, even though I would have preferred a pack of Camels? Gave them to Darla.”

“And who pray tell is Darla?”

“Behind the bar at work, Tuesday and Thursday nights. Her father’s finally trying to quit. She was very appreciative, by the way. Wants me to tell you you’re a good person.”