“It was all coming together,” she said. “Then that crazy tree had to—”

Movement from the driveway caused us both to turn. A man around Holly’s age, skinny-but-soft, bald and bearded, studied the felled tree before heading over. He wore a long-sleeved blue shirt, gray slacks, brown shoes. Beeper on his belt, iPhone in his hand, aviator sunglasses perched atop his clean head.

“Hey,” she said.

“Hey,” he said.

His wedding ring matched hers. Neither of them took the greeting beyond that. He had one of those faces that’s allergic to smiling, kept several feet between himself and Holly, looked put-upon.

She said, “Matt?”

His attention shifted to the hand she’d continued to drape over mine.

I stood, introduced myself.

He said, “A doctor? There’s a problem, health-wise?”

“She’s doing well, considering.”

“Good. Matt Ruche. She’s my wife.”

Holly said, “Doctor as in psychologist. He’s been giving me support.”

Matt Ruche’s eyes narrowed. “Okay.”

His wife flashed him a broad, flat smile. “I’m feeling much better now. It was crazy. Finding it.”

“Had to be … so when can we clean up?”

“Don’t know, they’ll tell us.”

“That sucks.”

“They have to do their job, Matt.”

He touched his beeper. “What a hassle.”

“The stupid tree fell down,” said Holly. “No way could anyone—”

“Whatever.” He glanced at his phone.

I turned to leave.

Holly Ruche said, “Hold on, one sec.”

She got to her feet. “Do you have a card, Dr. Delaware?”

I found one. Matt Ruche reached to take it. She beat him to it. He flushed clear up to his scalp. Shrugging, he began texting.

Holly gripped my hand with both of hers. “Thanks.”

I wished her good luck just as Liz Wilkinson strode into the yard, carrying two hard-shell cases. She had on a pantsuit the color of bittersweet chocolate; same hue as her skin, a couple of tones lighter. A white coat was draped over one arm. Her hair had been straightened recently and she wore it loose and long. She saw me, waved, kept going.

Someone must’ve prepped her because she headed straight for the tarp, put on the coat, tied her hair back, gloved up, stooped, and drew the cloth back deftly.

“Oh, look at this poor little thing.”

The bones seemed even smaller, the color of browned butter in places, nearly black in others. Fragile as lace. I could see tiny nubs running along the chewing surfaces of both jaws. Un-erupted tooth buds.

Liz’s lower lip extended. “Buried under the tree?”

I pointed out the hole. Liz examined the blue box.

“Swedish Hospital? Never heard of it.”

“Closed down in ’52. What do you think the box was originally used for?”

“Maybe exactly this,” she said.

“A morgue receptacle?”

“I was thinking something used to transfer remains.”

“The baby died a natural death in the hospital and someone took the body?”