He tuts as he takes it from me and mumbles to himself. “Same name, but this isn’t one of ours, I’m afraid. Let me just check to be sure.” He rummages through a few racks and returns to the checkout area. “Nope. Not ours.”

The disappointment is a swift kick in the gut. Another dead end.

“But,” he adds and leads us to the computer. “I’ve seen this brand. Not necessarily for onesies, but they make children’s clothing too.” He types hurriedly and then cranes the screen toward Jake. It squeaks with the effort. “Were these stores on your list?”

Jake jots down the names and addresses and claps him on the back. “You did good, Dan. Thanks again for meeting us.”

In less than five minutes, we’re back on the street. “What did he say? What are the other stores?”

“They happen to be the two on our list,” he says. “One in Oak Brook and one in Lake Geneva, Wisconsin.”

I calculate the odds of finding this needle in a very large haystack. “So if we can narrow it down…”

“Then we can maybe trace it back to recent purchases, a sales receipt, and if we’re lucky, a credit card. But that would mean pulling some major strings. No store manager is allowed to offer up that information.”

I tighten my ponytail and drop my hands. “I feel like we’re on a wild-goose chase.”

“Because we are.” Jake unlocks his car. The quick chirp of the alarm disables. He opens the door and helps with the baby. “But it’s the little things that solve cases. Trust me.”

I make sure the baby is secure and climb into the passenger seat. I rest my head against the headrest. I know he’s right, but it seems like we’re grasping at straws.

When Jake gets behind the wheel, I cringe from embarrassment. Here I am with one of Chicago’s lead homicide detectives, chasing onesies in hopes of solving a case. This must be laughable for him. I almost tell him so as the car revs to life.

“Oak Brook? Or Lake Geneva?”

“Jake.” I find his arm and rest my hand on it. “You don’t have to do this. I know you have to work. Can’t we just call them or scan a photo in? I feel like…” I scratch my head and point to an invisible solution beyond the windshield.

He twists in the driver’s seat to look at me. “You feel like what?”

“I feel like you’re just indulging me. Like you are in this with me but you might not really believe me. You might not really think this will lead anywhere.” My insecurity is out, and I await his easy reassurance. But he’s silent.

“Honesty?”