This morning she wore a sleeveless, formless blouse—a faded mauve and powder blue floral print that reminded me of a decorative tissue box. It billowed, untucked, over black stretch jeans piped with red. Her blue tennis shoes were speckled with bleach spots. Her hair was short and wavy, corn colored above dark roots. Earring slits creased her lobes but she wore no jewelry. Behind bifocals, her eyes continued to reject mine.

She patted Chondra's head, and the girl pressed her face against a thick, soft arm. Tiffani had walked into the living room and was staring at a picture on the wall, tapping one foot fast.

Evelyn Rodriguez said, “Okay, then, I'll just wait down in the car.”

“If it gets too hot, feel free to come up.”

“The heat don't bother me.” She raised a forearm and glanced at a too-small wristwatch. “How long we talking about this time?”

“Let's aim for an hour, give or take.”

“Last time was twenty minutes.”

“I'd like to try for a little longer today.”

She frowned. “Okay . . . can I smoke down there?”

“Outside the house? Sure.”

She muttered something.

“Anything you'd like to tell me?” I said.

“Me?” She freed one finger, poked a breast, and smiled. “Nah. Be good, girlies.”

Stepping out on the terrace, she closed the door. Tiffani kept examining the picture. Chondra touched the doorknob and licked her lips. She had on a white Snoopy T-shirt, red shorts, and sandals with no socks. A paper-wrapped Fruit Roll-Up extended from one pocket of the shorts. Her arms and legs were pasty and chubby, her face broad and puggish, topped by white-blond hair drawn into very long, very tight pigtails. The hair gleamed, almost metallic, incongruous above the plain face. Puberty might turn her pretty. I wondered what else it might bring.

She nibbled her lower lip. My smile went unnoticed or unbelieved.

“How are you, Chondra?”

She shrugged again, kept her shoulders up, and looked at the floor. Ten months her sister's senior, she was an inch shorter and seemed less mature. During the first session, she hadn't said a word, content to sit with her hands in her lap as Tiffani talked on.

“Do anything fun this week?”

She shook her head. I placed a hand on her shoulder and she went rigid until I removed it. The reaction made me wonder about some kind of abuse. How many layers of this family would I be able to peel back?

The file on my nightstand was my preliminary research. Before-bed reading for the strong stomached.

Legal jargon, police prose, unspeakable snapshots. Perfectly typed transcripts with impeccable margins.

Ruthanne Wallace reduced to a coroner's afternoon.

Wound depths, bone rills . . .

Donald Dell's mug shot, wild-eyed, black-bearded, sweaty.

“And then she got mean on me—she knew I didn't handle mean but that didn't stop her, no way. And then I just—you know—lost it. It shouldn'ta happened. What can I say?”