“What can I help you ladies with?” the shop owner asks. She’s an older woman with silver hair scraped back into a severe ponytail. She wears a gingham dress and cat’s-eye glasses on a chain around her neck.

Crystal doesn’t know where to begin. Luckily, Bec hands over the onesie. “Would it be possible to tell us if this was purchased here?”

“Well, let me see.” The woman’s voice is kind. She slides the readers up her nose, stretches the onesie in weathered hands, and peeks at the tag. “Yep. One of ours. Are you wanting to return it?”

Bec stands straighter.

Hope. She must be feeling hope.

“Not exactly.” Crystal tries to form the right words again but falters. Jess steps in.

“I know this is a strange request, Betty, but we’re trying to figure out who bought it.”

Betty chuckles. “Well, without a receipt, that’s going to be a tall order, I’m afraid.”

“I know. This is a bit of an emergency.” Jess smiles, as unthreatening as they come. “We think it would have been purchased in the last few months.”

“Not necessarily,” Crystal interjects. “It could have been a gift from someone too. A baby registry present, maybe?”

Bec chews her bottom lip. Her brow creases and her shoulders round as she absently rubs the baby’s back. Crystal needs to be helping her, not making her feel worse. Betty assesses Bec: her cane, her sad face, the vacant eyes, the baby. Sympathy tugs the corners of her mouth until she smiles. “Alright, let me see what I can do.” She waves them over to the computer. “We keep a backlog of receipts for up to six months before they’re whisked off to the land of accounting.” She laughs and pecks a few buttons on the computer. “I can put in the SKU number and see what comes up. If you ladies want some lemonade while you wait, please help yourselves.” She motions to a small sitting area a few feet away with a big glass pitcher of lemonade, cups, and floral saucers.

“Thank you. That sounds lovely.” Crystal steers Rebecca toward the antique chairs while Jess hangs back. A container of cinnamon sticks has spilled next to the cups and Crystal rights it.

“Is this impossible?” Rebecca glances at her worriedly while she sits.

“I’m not sure.” Crystal arranges the cinnamon sticks and wipes her hands on a napkin. She almost asks to take a look at the baby, but he seems so content in her arms. She’s such a natural mother—a good mother—even if it’s for a son she doesn’t believe is her own.

“Crystal.” Jess says her name sharply and motions her over.