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“Either. We might get caught.”

Sonny shrugged. “For getting rid of some garbage. We’ll say we’re helping the environment. Or something. We got this.”

The short trip back to my lab was uneventful. Once the boot was on the lab table, looking old and barely held together, Sonny said, “I’m sorry about your dad, Hazel. Do you really think this could be his?”

“I don’t know. But there’s a way I could know for sure. Here, put on this mask and the goggles.” I handed them to him.

Once our airways and eyes were protected, I re-gloved.

It was an old leather work boot, similar to the boots I always wore, identical to the boots Wilmot wore. The same one that lots of people around Black Vulture wore. Definitely a grocery store boot.

“My dad wrote his name inside the back flap of his boots. He would camp with friends and names in boots were helpful.”

The leather was worn and cracked, stiff and flakey. I stuck my hands into the top part of the boot and spread the opening enough to see inside and the top of the back upper. The tag that displayed the size was still there, almost pristine since it had been tucked away.

“The size is correct,” I said.

“Really?”

I pulled the opening wider and aimed the overhead light fixture into the boot.

“Do you see anything?” Sonny asked.

“Well, yes.”

“Cool.”

“And no.”

I grabbed a magnifying glass and looked again. I glanced at Sonny. “There are remnants of Sharpie writing in here, but nothing legible.”

“May I look?”

I handed him the glass, and he got close to the boot. “Yeah, I can see it, but … shoot, it could be anything.”

“Exactly,” I said. “And lots of people write their name in their boots.”

“What other tests could you do? DNA?”

“I doubt it. It’s been too long.”

“I’m sorry, Hazel,” Sonny said sympathetically. “That was fun, though.”

“Gathering an old boot from a barrel?”

“Yeah. Thanks for inviting me.”

I knew the boot was a long shot. I’d roped Sonny into something that the police may question me about at some point, but probably not.

“You’re welcome. And this still could be his. I won’t give up.”

What would it mean if it belonged to a man who disappeared twenty years ago? What were the odds I was on to something? Almost nil.

“Good.”

“Hey, weren’t you going to buy me dinner?”

Sonny pulled the mask down and smiled. “Let’s go.”