By nine the next morning I was sitting at a dark wooden table on the second floor of the Oakridge Public Library.

Martha Higgins sat facing me, her old bronze key ring jingling softly against her knuckles every time she moved in her chair.

She was sixty-four, with clear gray eyes behind wire glasses, and she cleared her throat twice before she pointed a shaky index finger at the glowing screen of the microfiche reader.

“The October 2000 entry ought to be right here, between the county intake logs,” Martha whispered.

I turned the gray plastic knob on the side of the machine and watched the blurry lines of black type roll up the glass screen.