“I’ve got trauma like that,” Pollen says. “A camp counselor. A woman. Did things with me she wasn’t supposed to do. Maybe it’s why I got into police work. But it’s funny…I almost never think about her. And when I do, she sort of comes downstairs in the house in my head, shows herself, and then heads back up. Then I just…don’t think of her again. Most of the time I forget there’s even a second floor.”

It’s body parts in the sink. Small arms and legs. The fingers give it away:

A child.

McGowan braces herself for the next photo. Swipes.

“Samhattan has one of those too,” Pollen says. “And her name is Daphne Vann. And the entire city only thinks about her when she comes downstairs.”

The second photo is worse than the first, if such a thing is possible. It’s small hands in water yet to be boiled in a pan on a stove.

McGowan tries to look away again, but she can’t. The door to this particular slice of madness has been opened. And she needs to see what’s inside.

“I’m the chief of police,” Pollen says, “and I’ve never once told someone not to talk about her. I’ve never once been told the same. Yet…here we all are…covering it up. But what do you call it when everyone just does it at once? And always? What do you call a cover-up that nobody planned, nobody enforces?”

McGowan swipes to the next photo.

It’s of a bedroom, she thinks. Whether or not it was Daphne’s she doesn’t know. Is this where she kept the kids she took? The small, scattered clothes indicate yes. But the empty bottles of Rich and Rare, the ashtray on the windowsill, say no.

“I can’t recall a single time in my forty years on the force, having to tell someone to keep quiet about Daphne. I can’t recall a single time she was even brought up.”

“Chuck Larson told me about her.”

Pollen laughs. But it’s cold.

McGowan swipes to the next photo. Has to look away immediately.

“Maybe he talked about her with me too,” Pollen says. “Maybe he did, and his words sunk into the same swamp those thoughts about my camp counselor do. Or, more likely, you triggered something in him. Just as you did with me on the phone. All that talk about the journals. The two basketball girls writing about Daphne. Most likely you reminded Chuck about Daphne.”

Ordinarily, McGowan would have so much to say now. So many questions. But the current photo is tattooing itself on her consciousness. Even as she closes her eyes.

It’s of a tiled floor in a filthy little house. It’s of what looks like a wig on those tiles. It’s of the slightest profile of a nose, letting you know it’s not just hair, but a little head, facing the other way.

“And Janice Taylor too,” Pollen says. “Either you or the current events reminded her of Daphne, and she held on to the idea just long enough to find that box about those girls. Just long enough to hand it over. I bet if you called Principal Taylor up right now, she’d barely remember what you’re talking about.” Pollen snaps her fingers close to McGowan’s nose. “Carla? You listening?”