Elaine stood beside a small sedan with a tissue in her hand and asked whether we could talk for five minutes.

I was tempted to walk away.

Then I saw how tired she looked.

“I won’t discuss Hailey’s private medical information,” I said.

“And I won’t change my account of what happened.”

“I understand.”

She hesitated, then held out a small envelope.

Inside were photographs from Brenda’s childhood: birthday parties, school plays, a girl with dark braids sitting on her father’s shoulders.