Victoria was one lucky anthropologist.

The three sets of skeletal remains were boxed in the cold case storage. No cremains.

She fought the urge to do a happy dance in her chair. The women could have been cremated and stored in canisters. Or buried. Instead, someone long ago had reduced the remains down to skeletal and placed them in boxes and stored them away, hoping their mystery could be solved in the future. Now they waited for Victoria to read them and search out answers about their identities.

The main question in the old case still ate at her. How could three women not be claimed? She tapped her glasses on her desk, her chin resting on her hand. Didn’t they have families missing them? She’d caught the latest news update, which had expanded to include the event of so long ago. The three who had been identified had previously been runaways or suspected prostitutes. None of them had originally been from the Portland area, but their families had all stated that they’d deliberately left home. Two had fought with their parents and ran off. The third had informed her family she was leaving for greener pastures.

No doubt the similarities of the new case would send reporters digging deep into archives. Perhaps some fresh exposure would trigger memories or reach people who hadn’t known about the three unidentified women. In her opinion, the two similar cases had the potential to go viral on the Internet. It had the key ingredients—tragic death, young women, and nearly identical occurrences decades apart.

Ugh. That wasn’t the type of publicity the examiner’s office needed right now. Hopefully the sensationalism would stay out of the way. She scribbled the reference numbers for the storage room on a scrap of paper, her curiosity level hovering somewhere in the stratosphere.

Her cell phone vibrated on her desk. Intending to ignore the call, she stood and was pushing in her chair when the name on the cell screen caught her eye.

Oh, come on. Not now.

Her ex-husband was calling. Again. She spoke with Rory about once a month since the divorce two years ago. They were still friends—well, they were still acquaintances. She never felt the urge to meet him for a drink, and she only tolerated his phone calls. She classified that type of relationship as an acquaintance. Why was he calling so early on a Sunday? The Rory she knew should be sound asleep from being out too late last night.

Had she mentioned her ex-husband still thought he was in college?

Her hand hovered over the phone. And hit Ignore.

She headed for the storage rooms.

Trinity sat in the waiting room at the medical examiner’s office and tried to make herself disappear. She hunched over her clipboard, glancing occasionally at the growing number of people milling about the room, avoiding eye contact. No one asked her any questions. The growing crowd was mostly adults, and each one or couple had a clipboard with the questionnaire.

The room was tense. Some parents cried, others spoke in hushed tones, and more simply stared into space, their hands in a death grip or clenching a spouse’s hand. Cell phone screens were constantly checked and calls made. Trinity’s questionnaire about Brooke was finished, but she hadn’t turned it in. As long as she didn’t hand in the form, Brooke wasn’t confirmed as dead. She clung to the clipboard, her fingers icy and her feet numb.

Ever since she’d seen the news on TV, she’d felt like she couldn’t get enough oxygen. Her brain was locked away, protected from thinking deeply. A door slammed in her mind if she started to consider Brooke’s fate. She’d floated, barely functioning on half power since speaking with Dr. Peres.

In her heart, she knew something was wrong.

Brooke always returned texts.

Trinity read the questionnaire for the hundredth time.

Age

Hair color and length

Eye color

Height

Estimated weight

Any unusual scars, birthmarks? Braces or tattoos?

Clothing last seen wearing

Brooke didn’t have braces or tattoos. Trinity didn’t know about any scars. The form was so sterile. It didn’t allow her to describe Brooke’s beauty or laugh. Or explain what a good friend she’d been… was. She’d filled in answers that were short and cold. Brooke’s sunny smile flooded her brain, and she immediately shut the image down.

Don’t think about her.

The parents in the room had filled out their forms as quickly as possible and given them to Anita. Some had demanded to view the girls’ bodies and were deftly turned away. Others sat silently in the chairs, staring at their cell phones, sending texts, and waiting. Trinity counted nine tissue boxes in the room. All were getting regular use.

“Oh, thank God!” shrieked a woman staring at her phone. She and her husband leaped up, and she fell into his arms, her shoulders shuddering. He hugged her hard, his head buried in her neck. Pulling apart, they stumbled across the room to Anita’s desk, tears spilling down their cheeks.

“My daughter just texted me back. She was at her boyfriend’s instead of where she’d told us she was spending the night.” The woman’s voice cracked as Anita dug through the questionnaires and pulled one out.

“I’ll shred this,” Anita said to the mother.

“No, I want it,” the mother said grimly, holding out her hand. “I want to show her what we went through because of her lies. Maybe she’ll learn something.”

Anita nodded and handed her the form. The couple headed out the door and all of the other parents watched them through the large windows. Halfway across the parking lot, the mother stopped and turned to her husband. She collapsed against him, her legs visibly shaking. They embraced in the lot, leaning heavily on each other.