He turned onto Albemarle. Supercans had been rolled to the edge of the street and were surrounded by leaf bags bulging with Christmas trash. Windows glowed warmly, multi-colored tree lights filling some of them. A young father was pulling his small son along the sidewalk on a fishtailing sled. They smiled and waved at us as we passed. Glenburnie was the neighborhood of middle-class families, of young professionals, single, married, and gay. In the warm months, people sat on their porches and cooked out in their yards. They had parries and hailed each other from the sheet.

The Dawsons’ modest house was Tudor style, comfortably weathered with neatly pruned evergreens in front. Windows upstairs and down were lit up, an old station wagon parked by the curb.

The bell was answered by a woman’s voice on the other side of the door. “Who is it?”

“Mrs. Dawson?”

“Yes?”

“Detective Marino, Richmond RD. I need to talk with you,” he said loudly, holding his badge up to the peephole.

Locks clicked free as my pulse raced. During my various medical rotations, I had experienced patients screaming in pain as they begged me not to let them die. I had reassured them falsely, “You’re going to be just fine,” as they died gripping my hand. I had said “I’m sorry” to loved ones desperate in small, airless rooms where even chaplains felt lost. But I had never delivered death to someone’s door on Christmas Day.

The only resemblance I could see between Mrs. Dawson and her daughter was the strong curve of their jaws. Mrs. Dawson was sharp-featured, with short, frosted hair. She could not have weighed more than a hundred pounds and reminded me of a frightened bird. When Marino introduced me, panic filled her eyes.

“What’s happened?” she barely said.

“I’m afraid I have very bad news for you, Mrs. Dawson,” Marino said. “It’s your daughter, Susan. I’m afraid she’s been killed.”

Small feet sounded in a nearby room, and a little girl appeared in a doorway to the right of us. She stopped and regarded us with wide blue eyes.

“Hailey, where’s Grandpa?” Mrs. Dawson’s voice quavered, her face ashen now.

“Upstairs.”

Hailey was a tiny tomboy in blue jeans and leather sneakers that looked brand-new. Her blond hair shone like gold and she wore glasses to straighten a lazy left eye. I guessed she was, at the most, eight.

“You go tell him to come downstairs,” Mrs. Dawson said. “And you and Charlie stay up there until I come get you.”

The child hesitated in the doorway, inserting two fingers into her mouth. She stared wary at Marino and me.

“Hailey, go on now!”

Hailey left with an abrupt burst of energy.

We sat in the kitchen with Susan’s mother. Her back did not touch the chair. She did not weep until her husband walked in minutes later.