But this little stone meant more than all of them.
It represented a child who didn't know whether she trusted me yet.
And who had still chosen to offer something kind.
That evening, I placed it beside my motel bed.
Then called my oldest riding friend back in Missouri.
He'd known me nearly forty years.
He was seventy now, retired from construction, and one of the few people who remembered my daughter before the club became the center of our lives.
When he answered, I told him where I was.
He laughed.
"New Mexico? What are you doing out there?"
I looked toward the patch.
"Meeting someone."
He became quiet.
"Who?"
I swallowed.
"My granddaughter."
For several seconds, the line was silent.
Then he whispered, "Your what?"
I explained.
The letter.
The diner.
The patch.
My daughter's death.
And the little girl who had walked into Lou's wearing a pink raincoat.
My friend listened without interrupting.
When I finished, he made a sound I hadn't heard from him in years.
He was crying.
He asked whether the child looked like my daughter.
I smiled through tears.
"Exactly."
Then I told him about the financial records.
His voice changed.
"What records?"
I described the authorization dates and the vendor payments.
For several seconds, he remained silent.
Then he said, "I always wondered."
My stomach tightened.
"Wondered what?"
He sighed.
"Whether we got that whole thing wrong."
I stared toward the motel wall.
"You had doubts?"
"Yeah."
I closed my eyes.
"Why didn't you say anything?"
He was quiet.
Then answered.
"Because I was a coward."
The words surprised me.
My friend continued.
"I didn't want trouble with the president. Didn't want the club splitting up. And I figured the treasurer knew more about the money than I did."
I looked toward the letter.
He added, "But your girl never acted like someone who'd stolen anything."
For several seconds, I couldn't speak.
Then I asked, "Do you still have the old meeting records?"
He hesitated.
"Some."
"Can you help me find out what happened?"
My friend took a breath.
"Yeah."
I looked toward the blue star.
Then said something I should have said nine years earlier.
"I don't want us deciding anybody's guilty before we check the evidence."
My friend was quiet.
Then answered.
"That's what your daughter wanted."
I closed my eyes.
"Yeah."
He continued.
"Maybe this time we should listen."
The day before I left New Mexico, the grandmother invited me to dinner.