I’d brought Maureen’s diary home, where I’d paged through the rest of it. It contained only four more entries, all of them dated from this summer, each of them listing what she’d worn (pink velvet shorts, softball T-shirt with pink sleeves, lucky #7), what she’d done and the number of men she’d done it to (two tonight. bjs only!!! he promised), and what she’d been paid ($75—easier than waitressing. men are dumb.). Reading it made me positive that Sheriff Nillson knew what had happened to her.
