She gave the date of her daughter’s reported abduction. She seemed to understand that Bosch had to ask some questions that had obvious answers. He was building a record.

“Your husband had sexually abused Stacey?”

“Yes.”

“He admitted this to you?”

“Yes.”

She started to cry then and opened her purse for a tissue. Bosch let her alone for a minute. He wondered if she was crying because of grief or guilt or out of relief that the story was finally being told. He thought it was probably a combination of all three.

“Over how long a period was she abused?” he finally asked.

Kate Kincaid dropped the tissue to her lap.

“I don’t know. We were married five years before . . . before she died. I don’t know when it started.”

“When did you become aware of it?”

“I would rather not answer that question, if you don’t mind.”

Bosch studied her. Her eyes were downcast. The question was at the foundation of her guilt.

“It’s important, Mrs. Kincaid.”

“She came to me once.” She got a fresh tissue from her purse for a fresh torrent of tears. “About a year before . . . She said that he was doing things she didn’t think were right . . . At first, I didn’t believe her. But I asked him about it anyway. He denied it, of course. And I believed him. I thought it was an adjustment problem. You know, to a stepfather. I thought maybe this was her way of acting out or something.”

“And later?”

She didn’t say anything. She looked down at her hands. She pulled her purse onto her lap and held it tightly.

“Mrs. Kincaid?”

“And later there were things. Little things. She never wanted me to go out and leave her with him — but she’d never tell me why. Looking back, it is obvious why. It wasn’t so obvious then. One time he was taking a long time in her room saying good night. I went to see what was wrong and the door was locked.”

“Did you knock on the door?”

She sat frozen for a long moment before shaking her head no.

“Is that a no?”

Bosch had to ask it for the tape.

“Yes, no. I did not knock.”

Bosch decided to press on. He knew that mothers of incest and molestation victims often didn’t see the obvious or take the obvious steps to save their daughters from jeopardy. Now Kate Kincaid lived in a personal hell in which her decision to give up her husband — and herself — to public ridicule and criminal prosecution would always seem like too little too late. She had been right. A lawyer couldn’t help her now. No one could.

“Mrs. Kincaid, when did you become suspicious of your husband’s involvement in your daughter’s death?”