He’s referring to the case of a young woman who was found strangled and murdered in Mason Lake. We think her boyfriend is behind her death, but we’ve been unable to build a case strong enough to charge him.

Frank shakes his head in exaggerated disgust. “I wonder how Cathy Rinehart’s family feels about now.”

I know what he’s doing, but I refuse to take the bait. I wonder what kind of man uses someone else’s hurt to make another feel terrible.

“Heartbroken,” I say.

He doesn’t flinch. Frank’s not a flincher. He faces everything head-on like a runaway truck without functioning brakes.

“Angry too,” he shoots back, before dropping a little bomb. “I called Cathy Rinehart’s father, and he gave me an earful.”

I get it. I do. Grief is a powerful motivator. I do my best not to push back at this man in front of me. He has every right to be angry at the world. However, he has no right to try to grow a club membership of the parents of murder victims whose murderers have eluded justice. I intend to nail Cathy’s killer. I intend to find Sophie’s.

“Mrs. Flynn, are you sure you want to see Sophie now?” I ask, knowing that I need to tread lightly here. “You don’t have to.”

As I’m sure he always does, Frank answers for his wife. “She wants to,” he says.

But I don’t care. Whatever they have going on between them—and I have a good idea what that is—I don’t need to be a part of it. Helen is a person. She’s not a thing.

“I’m asking her,” I say.

Frank fumes. His head is a big red stoplight now.

Helen looks flustered, which I have already figured out is one of her most recurrent states. Apparently, she’s not used to seeing anyone go around her husband. “No,” she says a little weakly, before catching his stare. “I mean no, I’m sure that I want to see her.”

“All right, now,” I say, “after you see her, we’ll shut the blinds again. After you two are gone, I’ll observe while the forensic pathologist conducts a thorough exam to determine what caused her death and to collect any evidence that might be present on her body.”

Frank motions Helen to join him as he faces the window.

I press a button, and the blinds on the other side of the glass rise.

“Goddamn it,” Frank says almost at once as he sees Sophie on a steel gurney, lightly covered by a sheet. “Goddamn him. He really killed my little girl. That son of a bitch!”

Helen doesn’t say anything. She stands there statuelike while her husband rants. Her hands have turned into crab claws, and the tissue she’s been holding is now wadded into a near-perfect sphere.