“Someone murdered your wife,” I say. “We have reason to believe she was assaulted too.”

“Assaulted,” he says, blinking back tears. “Yeah, I saw that, remember? She was forcibly abducted right in front of our vacation rental.”

I have to tell him. Better from me than from someone on Facebook.

“We’ll have to do a thorough exam, Adam, but I’m sorry to say that it appears that Sophie may have been sexually assaulted too.”

“Raped?”

“That’s what it looks like.”

“If she was raped,” he says, “then there’ll be some evidence as to the identity of her killer, right?”

Just like the kid cop who took photos, Adam watches crime TV. Seems as if everyone does. If I had a drink for every time I sat in a bar with a TV on and there was some crime report and someone piped up that there was a problem with the chain of evidence or fruit of the poisoned tree or some such, I’d . . . well, be drunk.

“It’s not guaranteed,” I say. “She’s been in the canal a few hours, at least. The water might have washed away some of what her killer might have left behind.”

“There are a lot of mights there,” Adam tells me.

“I’m afraid so,” I say.

Montrose joins us just then. “I’m very sorry about your wife,” he says to Adam.

Adam gives him a nod. “Just go catch who did this to her, Detective,” he says. “Just find him.”

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

LEE

Carmine and Delia Winters sit at a picnic table. They are in their early forties. He’s trim and wears a mustache that’s meant to be noticed—a handlebar that looks so waxed that I’m all but certain a wet towel could be hung from its tips. His wife, Delia, is a striking woman with dark hair and penciled brows. He’s got on a UBC T-shirt, and she’s wearing a tank top, blue in color. A pair of hoodies, also UBC, are folded neatly on the picnic table. The two of them are watching everything around them with the kind of peculiar expression that comes with seeing the horrific and the fascinating in a single glance. A car crash comes to mind.

I approach and introduce myself as one of the detectives investigating the case.

“Do you know who it is?” Carmine asks.

“Yes, but we’re not releasing that now,” I say.

“Well, we’ve already told the police everything,” Delia says.

Her husband puts his hand on her shoulder. I can tell she doesn’t want to go over it again because it’s painful to talk about, not because she doesn’t want to be bothered.

“It’s fine,” he says. “This is a bit of a shock. Never in our lives did we think we’d find a dead body.”

No one ever does. And those who do probably never forget it.

“I’m sure it was a terrible shock,” I say. “I just want to hear a bit more about how it was that you found her.”