The scene shifted abruptly to a shot of the same woman walking inside the mall. She was carrying a shopping bag from Buckle. This clip was taken from the front, directly facing the woman. Though the film was grainy and she wasn’t on it very long, I closed my eyes and felt my stomach plummet.

“It’s not her,” I said. “That’s not my sister.” I thought I would cry—my eyes got that hot feeling—but I didn’t. But the shock of the anticipation and my subsequent disappointment (or relief) was immense.

“You’re sure?”

“Not completely.” I shrugged. “How could I be, unless I saw her face-to-face? It’s been eight years or more since I saw my sister. But I can tell that this woman’s face is rounder, and the way she walks is not the way Cameron walked.”

“Let’s watch again, to be completely sure,” Flemmons said in a very neutral voice. I sat up straighter and watched again. This time it was possible to take more notice of the little things.

The woman in the parking lot film was toting a huge purse that I didn’t think my sister would ever choose. Granted, people’s tastes changed as they grew up and grew older, but I didn’t think Cameron’s choice of purses would be that drastically different. The shopping woman wore high heels with her dress slacks, and Cameron disdained heels for everyday wear. She could have changed her style in shoes as well as purses, though. I wasn’t wearing the same accessories I’d had in high school. But the shape of the woman’s face, and the way the woman in the film moved along at a fast clip with her shoulders hunched a little forward . . . no, I was sure this woman wasn’t Cameron.

“Definitely not,” I said, after the second viewing. I was a lot calmer now. The shock was over, and the reality of another dashed hope had settled in.

Rudy Flemmons looked down for a minute, and I wondered what expression he was concealing. “All right,” he said quietly. “All right. I’ll tell Pete Gresham. By the way, he asked me to tell you hello.”

I nodded. Now that I’d seen this film clip, and I knew the woman in it wasn’t my sister, I was very curious about the man who’d called it in.

I tried to ask some questions, but Detective Flemmons wasn’t spilling any beans. “I’ll let you know if more information comes in,” he said, and I had to be dissatisfied with that.

I redeployed my umbrella and dashed back to the car, feeling the phone in my pocket vibrate as I shook the umbrella off and got into the driver’s seat. I tossed the umbrella into the rear, slammed the door, and opened the phone.

“Mariah Parish did have a baby,” Victoria Flores said.