At that point, she let the detectives into her home. Sitting on a floral rocker by the window, the woman chain-smoked while she answered questions about the twins. Most of the information confirmed what Bentz had already learned from Brianna Hayward. Though it had obviously been difficult for her, she had come up with recent pictures of the girls as well as two hairbrushes. With little success, she fought tears as Montoya placed each brush into a bag labeled with the girl’s name. The notion that the police might need DNA samples to identify her daughters was nearly too much for her.

Bentz got it. He’d been in her position when his Kristi had been abducted years earlier.

“I just want them back,” Selma whispered, crushing out her third or fourth cigarette in an overflowing ashtray.

“We’re doing all we can.”

She stared into space, unblinking, her mind somewhere else.

“Do you mind if we have a look at their car?” Bentz asked. She nodded numbly, but didn’t move from her chair. Instead, she reached for her half-empty pack of cigarettes on the table where her phone and the ashtray sat. “I mean, now,” Bentz clarified.

“What?” Her hand paused midair. “Oh, yes . . . sorry. It’s out back in the lot. One of the visitor’s spots.”

“We’ll probably have it towed to the garage,” Montoya said.

“Oh . . . but if the girls return . . .” Her voice faded. “Sorry. Certainly. I’ll get the keys.” She retrieved a set of keys and then led them outside to a lot that was surrounded by low-growing shrubs. Roughly half of the spots were taken by vehicles. “The manager will be glad if you do take it. I’m . . . I’m, um, not supposed to have any extra cars here for longer than, I don’t know, five hours or so. But the manager, Stan, he’s cutting me a break. You know, because of the situation.” Her voice caught and she cleared her throat, then pointed out a fifteen-year-old Toyota. Selma Denning stood there smoking another cigarette as Montoya and Bentz gave the car a once-over.

They found nothing out of the ordinary. A pair of sunglasses along with the registration and car owner’s manual in the glove box. A phone charger, pack of gum, and mess of tissues and gas receipts in the console. A warm, half-drunk soda in the cup holder. Gum wrappers and half a dozen French fries under the front seats. In the back, two jackets, a collapsible umbrella, and some trashy magazines were tossed over the faded seat. Montoya checked the pockets of the two jackets and found lip balm, a bracelet, and a ticket stub from a movie dated six months earlier.

Nothing that looked as if it belonged to anyone but the twins.

A total bust.