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“I understand,” I say. And I do, given that Mom and Dad are going to go all FCC over my upcoming podcast episodes.

“So how did you even come to know about Denise in the first place?” Erin asks, pulling a cookie from the tray. They’re homemade, not store bought. I imagine the children she had wished for, the unmade voices she’d hoped would fill these rooms, their throats never formed.

“I came across her by accident,” I tell Erin. “There was an inaccuracy in the data of the missing from the tornado, and I sniffed it out.”

I can’t say how, exactly. David Swinton had invoked shield law before speaking to me, but if Erin presses, I can always point to Bailey Foxglove’s journal notes.

“Well, I’m glad,” Erin says. “It’s nice to know that someone cares.”

“Have you ever heard from Denise?” I ask. “Do you have any idea what happened to her?”

“No,” Erin says, shaking her head. “It’s not surprising, really. We only had Denise for three months, and well . . . it wasn’t exactly a wonderful time in our lives. The poor girl walked through life believing everyone was out to use her for something, or to put one over on her. And with good reason, I guess. I didn’t ask too many questions, but it was obvious Denise had been hurt in more ways than one.”

“And she expected more of the same?” I ask, using my words carefully.

“She certainly didn’t believe that Paul and I were sharing our home just out of the kindness of our hearts. I asked her to do her part, of course, help with the dishes, do her own laundry. But she’d been the oldest of seven in the house she’d come from before, and expected to parent the other six. As for Paul, well . . .”

She breaks off, blushing.

“I’m guessing she was expected to be a parent to the other kids and take on the wifely duties as well?” I ask delicately.

“Yes.” She nods. “Something like that. Nobody had been kind to this girl, ever,” Erin says, putting her lemonade back down, untasted. “She didn’t know what to do when someone was motivated by something pure, like care or concern.”

“So she’s never contacted you?” I press. “Never reached out since 1994?”

“No, why would she?” Erin asks. “Kindness was foreign to her, and she thought Paul and I were both monsters inside. She was just waiting for us to show our true faces. She told me as much, before she ran off.”

“Three months in and she still didn’t trust you?”

“No,” Erin says. “I think Denise could have stayed with us her whole life and still been waiting for the other shoe to drop. She trusted no one and liked even less people.”

“Someone told me she hung out with a Jamison,” I say, latching on to the tidbit. “But you claim she didn’t like anybody.”

“Well . . . ,” Erin says, brushing some cookie crumbs off her knee. “It was a Jamison.”

So, not really a person? It’s a thought that goes unspoken, but I feel the cool lemonade warming in my stomach as my irritation spikes.

“Do you remember which Jamison? A boy or a girl?”

“Oh, a boy, for sure,” Erin says. “Denise liked boys. That girl doing the podcast with you is a Jamison, right?”

“Bristal,” I confirm, fighting the urge to tack on that she’s not pregnant. “Does the name Dover Jamison mean anything to you?” I ask.

“Sounds about right.” Erin nods. “Is that Bristal’s dad?”

“Uncle,” I say, quickly tapping out a text to Bristal.

At Erin Hendrix’s place. She says Dover knew Denise.

A response comes in immediately.

Cool. We can ask him about her when we visit him in prison. I’ve got that all set up, btw.

“She never reached out to you, but have you ever tried looking for Denise?” I ask Erin.

“Not at first,” Erin said. “Foxglove told us there wasn’t anything we could do, and when I talked to CPS they weren’t exactly helpful. They said she was an adult now and we could file a missing person’s report, but there wasn’t a whole lot to be done.”

“Did you file that report?” I ask.