The commentary was delivered by an announcer whose sonorous voice sounded gratuitously horrified. “Was it a stranger who accosted beautiful, gifted Nan Sheridan? She and her twin celebrated their nineteenth birthday the night before at the family mansion. Did someone Nan knew, someone who perhaps toasted her on her birthday, become her killer? In fifteen years no one has come forward with a shred of information that might solve this hideous crime. Was Nan Sheridan the random victim of a deranged monster, or was her death an act of personal vengeance?”

A montage of closing shots followed. The house and grounds from a different angle. The phone number to call “if you have any information.” The last closeup was the police photo of Nan’s body as it had been found, neatly placed on the ground, her hands folded together on her waist, her left foot still wearing the Nike, her right foot in the sequined slipper.

The final line: “Where are the mates to this sneaker, to this graceful evening shoe? Does the killer still have them?”

Greta Sheridan had watched the program dry-eyed. When it was finished, she’d said, “Chris, I’ve gone over it in my mind so often. That’s why I wanted to see this. I couldn’t function after Nan died, couldn’t think. But Nan used to talk to me so much about everyone at school. I… I just thought that seeing that program might make me recall something that could be important. Remember the day of the funeral? That huge crowd. All those young people from college. Remember Chief Harriman said that he was convinced her killer was sitting there among the mourners? Remember how they had cameras set up to take pictures of everyone in the funeral home and at church?”