The waters of the James River and a heavy rain had stripped away any DNA on her body except for Kurt’s. After the case shifted away from him, it basically stalled. With no additional DNA, if the offender had a record, there was no way to find him. Television crime dramas led most to believe each crime scene had traces of some evidence that would miraculously crack the case. Not true.

Witnesses had seen Clare leave Jo-Jo’s house alone, but no one could remember whether she’d walked the five blocks to our home, gotten or been forced into a car, or been pulled into another neighborhood house. One guy thought he’d seen someone approach her, but he’d been too drunk to absorb any details. There’d been an extensive search of the area homes as well as their security cameras. There’d been no trace of Clare.

Some said my sister had been drinking. Others couldn’t be sure. A few said she’d looked pissed. Almost everyone, given how she was dressed and her sour mood, assumed she was me.

“Seems after all this time, someone might have said something,” I said. “I’ve heard that can happen when time passes. Relationships break up and an ex spills a secret. Someone’s conscience gets the better of them. Even an inmate hears something.”

“All possible scenarios but no lucky break like that in this case. Unfortunately, many cases do not get solved.”

I rejected the finality of his statement. Someone, somewhere, knew what had happened. Someone had seen something. “If you’re retiring, could I see your case file?”

“Your sister’s case is still open, which means I can’t show it to you.”

“But you’re leaving.”

“I’ll give the files to another younger cop. He or she will follow up. You’ll likely get a call.”

It wouldn’t be the same. Richards had lived and worked this case for thirteen years. There was no way he could convey all he knew to another detective. “When?”

“In the next year.”

Another year. Another year of freedom for a killer. More missed opportunities to collect perishable evidence. “The new cop won’t have the history or interest in the case like you did.”

He drew in a breath. His chair squeaked as he leaned forward. “I can’t give you the files.”

I sat silent, perched on the edge of my seat, my fingers still gripping the strap of my camera bag. “What about a copy of your notes? I remember you wrote down everything I said when you interviewed me. You always had that big folio in your hand.”

He regarded me but, instead of answering, shifted to another topic. “Tell me about your car accident.”

“What’s there to say?”

“Paramedics thought you had drugs in your system.”

“You’re keeping tabs on me?”