“You’re right, I’m sure. It can’t be Delilah. We know that,” I said, as I pushed the photos together into a stack. “Plus, she’s only twelve. Father, my mothers, wouldn’t have given her a sweet sixteen ring yet.”
“I’ll email some photos of the clothing and the ring out to the media,” Max suggested. “The Amber Alert’s been out a little more than an hour now. The TV stations are carrying the story about the girl in the field. This could help ID her.”
“Sure,” I said. “Good idea.”
We’d already sent the two flashlights to the lab to be compared. The one from Evan Barstow’s house would also be dusted for fingerprints and tested for DNA. I sat in a chair and looked at photos of them again, lined them up, side by side. They had to be identical. And if they were, Evan had to be our guy. He had to have Delilah. But if not at the house, then where? Preoccupied with the photos, I didn’t hear them until they shuffled into the room.
“Mother, you came,” I said, as she marched in the door with her two sister-wives and Lily.
“Only because Sariah asked me to.” The stoop I’d noticed before looked more pronounced, as if she carried the weight of the family on her back. Her face hung wearily. I sensed she had all her remaining energy focused on retaining control.
“I’m glad you’re here,” I said. Mother didn’t respond.
Sariah handed me two paper bags. The first held Delilah’s hairbrush and some of her dirty clothes. Inside the second, I found a doll—a pudgy toddler with curly blond hair and blue glass eyes that flapped open and shut. In places, the doll’s vinyl skin had discolored and worn thin from years of cuddling.
“Delilah’s doll?” I asked.
Sariah nodded. “Her favorite.”
I gave everything to Max to send to the lab to try to pull DNA.
“All these dresses,” Naomi said. “They’re from Evan Barstow’s house?”
“Yes, take your time and look through,” I said. “I need to know if any of these could be the one Delilah had on that night.”
“We won’t find Delilah’s dress,” Mother predicted, and I saw the anger in the downturn of her lips. “The Barstows are good men, sons of the prophet.”
It was useless to argue with her, so I retired to the hallway where I had a view back into the room through a floor-to-ceiling window. Mother, Sariah, Naomi and Lily circulated one by one through the dresses. We had fourteen, various sizes, all the traditional, long prairie style. A crime scene officer held up each one as my mothers and Lily inspected it. When they reached the last dress, a solid blue that had flowers embroidered across the bodice, I returned to the room.
“Do any of them look like Delilah’s dress?”
“None of these are Delilah’s,” Mother said. “I told you it wouldn’t be here.”
Sariah appeared relieved. “Clara, that could be good, couldn’t it? That might mean he doesn’t have her.”
“Maybe, or not. We don’t know,” I said. “We’re going to just have to keep on investigating and figure it out.”
“This was a waste of time,” Mother scoffed.
When I turned around, she stood across the table from me, flipping through the stack of photos I’d left out. “Then explain why Evan has Delilah’s flashlight, Mother,” I challenged, unable to keep the irritation out of my voice.
Mother ignored my question. When she reached the end of the stack, she started at the beginning again, this time pulling a handful out and laying them end to end. Her brow knit in worry. “What are these?” she asked.
“Those are of the girl we found in the field,” I explained. “Her dress and jewelry.”
Mother’s face grew long, and she whispered, “Sariah, Naomi, come look at these pictures.”
My mothers gathered in a line. I said nothing, just watched them. Minutes passed, and tears formed in my mother’s eyes. Sariah put her hand on Naomi’s shoulder. “It can’t be,” Sariah whispered. “It can’t be.”
Naomi lowered her body into a chair. Her face frozen in agony, she cried out, “Lord, please help us!”
Lily didn’t appear to understand what upset them any more than I did but watched intently. I moved closer and skimmed over the images my mother had chosen, photos of the dress where it was unstained, of the buttons on the bodice, and a close-up of the ring.
At that instant my mother focused on me, and I felt as if she truly looked at me for the first time since my return. “Clara, tell me again. Is this the dress from the girl found in the field?”
“Yes,” I said. “Why?”
“The girl they found dead today?” Sariah asked.
When I again said yes, Mother screamed, such a scream as I had never heard in my life, a shattering, torturous cry that threatened to strangle my heart. I ran and held her, wrapped my arms around her. In her agony, she didn’t push me away. “Who is it, Mother?” I whispered. “Who is that girl?”
“The ring, too? That was on the dead girl?” Naomi asked, choking out each word.
I whispered, “Yes,” and my mothers nestled together, held one another and wept. Again I asked, “Who is it?”
“I made this dress,” Naomi said in a voice so wrought with emotion it came out as a hiss. “I sewed those buttons.”
Lily examined the photos, as if trying to decide what so troubled our mothers.
“I need to know what you all know,” I said. “Tell me!”
“I bought the fabric in St. George. And I took the buttons off an old dress of my own. See the last one near the waist?” Naomi asked.
I picked up a photo that showed the front of the dress, the placket with the buttons. I looked at it carefully. At first, I didn’t see anything unusual. Then I noticed that the last button didn’t match the others. Slightly larger than the rest, it looked more beige
