I think of Ailes’s example with the deck of cards. We’re looking at the pieces of cardboard, but not seeing what really happened.

We’re all distracted. Each one of us thinking along our own biases. Shannon, the physical solution. The medical examiner, the procedural error. Danielle, the scientific explanation.

I walk back over to the table with the ground radar. The tech who had the handheld scanner, Agent Davis, is offering his theory. He waves his hand toward Chloe and shakes his head as he dismisses the whole thing. “We get this in the South all the time. The soil gets real damp, cracks open a coffin, and a body floats to the top in the mud. We even have tombs where the coffins get rearranged because of the flooding. People think it’s ghosts.” He seems confident in his theory, but I notice he doesn’t look over at Chloe when he says “ghost.”

Words have power.

He seems happy with his explanation and looks at the other members of the team, waiting for their approval.

The medical examiner speaks up behind us. “Do your bodies manage to change their cause of death? Miraculously heal from their wounds, only to die two years later from asphyxiation? Spontaneously dry the mud in hours?” Gladys’s words are bitter.

Detective Gimbal tries to calm her down. “Gladys, your judgment is the last thing anyone here is going to question.”

She gives him a sharp look. “I’m not worried about that. I just want to get her out of the ground and onto my table so I can do a proper exam. The sooner you finish with the technology demo, the better.”

“You got your blood samples,” replies Shannon. “And I think we’re going to need to evaluate where we do the autopsy . . .”

Gladys’s eyebrow shoots up. “I see.” Her tone is chilling. “If I’m no longer needed here, then I guess I should be going home. Give my regards to her family. Again.” The last word punctures the air like a knife.

Gimbal chases after her to try to calm her down. It’s obvious she feels like she’s on trial here. I reach her first. I can see the hurt in her eyes.

She turns to me. “Who are you?” The question is cold and clinical. I feel like I’m on her autopsy table, about to be dissected.

“Special Agent Jessica Blackwood. But that’s not important.” I try to find the right words. “We need your help. There are two murders here and a killer to catch.”

Shannon is just over my shoulder. “We haven’t established that it’s a murder investigation yet.”

I wheel around to him. “Of course it is. You have two murders. The one two years ago and the one of this girl. The real question, besides who did this, is which girl was the real Chloe McDonald.”

I’m speaking my gut. It’s the only logical conclusion. Someone has to say it.

Shannon is about to say something, then stops. The words are soaking in.