My heart stops as I recognize a maroon Buick parked in a visitor’s spot.

Frank and Helen Flynn are here.

I have no idea why they’d come. Adam has already identified Sophie, and there is no need for them to put themselves through an experience like that.

The coroner’s assistant, Celia Greene, meets me after Security lets me inside the building. She’s in her twenties, with cropped blond hair and what looks like a dozen earrings on each ear. Just below her neckline peeks the top half of a calligraphic tattoo. I can’t make out what it says, and I know I’ll try later when I go to sleep. I’m like that. A puzzle solver who never misses an episode of Wheel of Fortune, something I’d never admit to anyone out loud.

“Good God,” she tells me without as much as a hello, “the victim’s father is a real ass.”

I keep my facial expressions to a minimum. “What’s up?”

She rolls her eyes upward. “He insisted that he wanted to see her. I told him that the body was prepped for an exam and that an ID had already been made. He could see her postexam, when the body’s released to the funeral home.”

“That didn’t satisfy him,” I say, knowing already that probably nothing satisfies Frank Flynn. He’s left at least seven messages for me since Saturday. Each message offered a pointed—and unsolicited—suggestion to “help” with the investigation.

“No,” she says. “He and his wife are in the viewing room waiting for someone to lift the blinds.”

“Can the pathologist make that happen?” I ask.

“Sure,” Celia says.

In Loving Memory. I think that’s the tattoo. The tops of the letters indicate I, L, and M. The spacing is about right. I wonder who’s being remembered on her chest, but I don’t ask.

“The little girl is with Deb in Records,” she adds.

I’m stunned. “They brought her?”

“I know. Right? Who brings a three-year-old to the morgue?”

“Frank Flynn does,” I say. “That’s who.”

“I could tell that Mrs. Flynn was none too happy about it. She barely said a word.”

I want to tell Celia that’s Helen’s normal MO, but I don’t. I head into the viewing room, where I find Sophie’s mother clutching a box of tissues and Frank positioned in front of the viewing window as though he doesn’t want to miss a football play on TV.

He glares at me. “Jesus,” he says. “I thought you’d never get here.”

I’m actually ten minutes early, but I don’t bring that up.

“I’m here now,” I say.

I hear the sound of tissues being pulled from the box. Helen is already sobbing.

I place my hand on her shoulder. “You don’t need to be here, Mrs. Flynn.”

She nods at me and then looks at her husband.

“She wants to be here,” he says. “This is our only child. We want justice for Sophie, and we’re going to be involved in everything that we can.”