Two years after my wedding I stood behind bulletproof glass searching evidence tables piled with pictures of smiling brides and grooms. Jenny, the police officer assigned to photo viewing day, led me to the Misc. box, a cardboard beast overflowing with pictures and negatives. She warned, “This might take a while.” A blond woman flanked by her husband and her parents said, “Can you believe we have to do this?” She rifled through boxes for a glimpse of the dress she had so carefully picked out, her husband’s smile, photos of friends and family. I was looking for those things too. But I was also looking for something else. In that police basement I was searching for the last pictures ever taken of my mother and me.