“A copy of the photo was found on a computer at the hospital where Jakey was being treated. It could have been one of the nurses who set up the account and posted the photo, or someone else working there. Someone Megan and Grace knew who took offense on their behalf, probably.”

“You don’t like talking about it, do you.” It’s a statement, not a question, and I know it’s her way of telling me to stop trying to get her to talk about finding Megan’s body. She knows I don’t want to talk about Jakey; she’s just trying to make a point. I lean forward and turn the radio up.

The children’s play area, just behind the office where Nina Rossi suggested we meet, turns out to be a broken seesaw, a slide covered in graffiti, and a couple of chain swings that look like they could easily split a child in two. Unsurprisingly, it’s empty. Cara kicks away a couple of cider cans and we sit on a damp bench facing the back of the office. Cara carefully takes an A5 envelope out of her backpack and says quickly, “Look, don’t take this the wrong way, but maybe you should wait in the car?”

“What?”

But she knows I heard what she said, so she keeps talking. “It’s just I think maybe on my own it’ll seem less kind of . . . confrontational, I suppose.” She looks at me, can tell I don’t know what to say, and shrugs. “This is all just quite private, you know, it might be emotional for her. I don’t mind if you want to talk to her on your own after, I just don’t want her to think you’re writing an article, that’s all.”

Suddenly, I realize Cara is worried about being associated with me as much as I am about helping her. But still, there’s no way I’m waiting in the car.

“Cara, I organized this, and besides I didn’t drive all this way to . . .” but I stop talking because Cara isn’t listening, she’s watching a woman walking towards us at an efficient clip. Dr. Nina Rossi has the upright, steady walk of someone who knows exactly where they’re going. She’s wearing a two-piece suit, the type favored by civil servants and politicians, and has short, neat, gray hair. As she approaches I see there’s a dullness in her eyes, her mouth leaden and unsmiling like it’s been that way for so long you’d need a chisel to change it.

We both stand and she nods at us, putting her hand out to Cara first.

“You must be Cara,” she says, and Cara, rather sweetly, does a tiny deferential bow of her head as she shakes Dr. Rossi’s hand.

“Yes, hi.”

“I’m sorry you’ve been caught up in such an awful tragedy,” she says, before turning to me.

“Hello, Jon.” Her eyes narrow, like my name is an aggravation. Her skin is smoother than most women’s her age, perhaps from care, but more likely from lack of any real sadness or joy. She looks like she plateaued long ago, her feelings a hand of cards she holds carefully away from other players’ prying eyes.