A thousand thanks to Jim Junot for answers to a mil ion questions.

Thanks to Paul Reichs for comments on the manuscript, and to the whole ragtag beach bunch for title suggestions and other minutiae.

My incredibly patient and bril iant editor, Susanne Kirk, took a rough piece of work and made it flow.

A special thanks to my supersonic agent, Jennifer Rudolph Walsh. You delivered Wyatt Z. the same day I deliveredBare Bones.It was a very good year.

1

ASIWAS PACKAGING WHAT REMAINED OF THE DEAD BABY,THEman I would kil was burning pavement north towardCharlotte .

I didn’t know that at the time. I’d never heard the man’s name, knew nothing of the grisly game in which he was a player.

At that moment I was focused on what I would say to Gideon Banks. How would I break the news that his grandchild was dead, his youngest daughter on the run?

My brain cel s had been bickering al morning. You’re a forensic anthropologist, the logic guys would say. Visiting the family is not your responsibility. The medical examiner wil report your findings. The homicide detective wil deliver the news. A phone cal .

Al valid points, the conscience guys would counter. But this case is different. YouknowGideon Banks.

I felt a deep sadness as I tucked the tiny bundle of bones into its container, fastened the lid, and wrote a file number across the plastic. So little to examine. Such a short life.

As I secured the tub in an evidence locker, the memory cel s floated an image of Gideon Banks. Wrinkled brown face, fuzzy gray hair, voice like ripping duct tape.

Expand the image.

A smal man in a plaid flannel shirt arcing a string mop across a tile floor.

The memory cel s had been offering the same image al morning. Though I’d tried to conjure up others, this one kept reappearing.

Gideon Banks and I had worked together at theUniversity ofNorth Carolina atCharlotte for almost two decades until his retirement three years back. I’d periodical y thanked him for keeping my office and lab clean, given him birthday cards and a smal gift each Christmas. I knew he was conscientious, polite, deeply religious, and devoted to his kids.

And he kept the corridors spotless.

That was it. Beyond the workplace, our lives did not connect.

Until Tamela Banks placed her newborn in a woodstove and vanished.

Crossing to my office, I booted up my laptop and spread my notes across the desktop. I’d barely begun my report when a form fil ed the open doorway.

“A home visit real y is above and beyond.”

I hit “save” and looked up.

TheMecklenburgCounty medical examiner was wearing green surgical scrubs. A stain on his right shoulder mimicked the shape ofMassachusetts in dul red.

“I don’t mind.” Like I didn’t mind suppurating boils on my buttocks.

“I’l be glad to speak to him.”