“I mean, if you feel you need to talk to someone, someone not me or Dad, a therapist…”

“Mom.”

“I just want you to be OK.”

Julia doesn’t say anything to this. She folds her arms and goes past her, into the kitchen, to Kyle. Iris walks away, scans through the messages. Julia isn’t hyping up what she saw or playing the victim or milking this for attention: nearly every response is crisp, curt, mature. I can’t talk about this, so please don’t ask me. Please pray for Ned. We need to be there for Ned.

She frowns at a few of the messages from Julia’s friends. Sorry we teased you about liking Ned. I wasn’t trying to be gross by asking about his mom and what happened. Please text me back and let me know you’re okay.

Iris walks to the kitchen, stands at the corner of the open space. She watches Kyle fold his arms around Julia, Julia lean into his shoulder. They’ve always been close. Iris feels a pang in her chest, her stomach.

“I just want you to be OK,” Iris repeats.

“I know that is what you care about.”

“What does that mean?”

“Me being OK. So I can do well on my tests and in my classes and get into a good college and have a bright future. You don’t want that derailed.”

“That’s not what I meant, sweetheart. You’ve had a trauma.”

“I’m worried about Ned right now, Mom. Not myself.”

A long, silent pause between them. You sure are focused on Ned these days, Iris thinks. She’s not sure how she feels about that. She likes Ned. She knows what she should do is not care, not fight it, so Julia won’t dig in her heels. Let the infatuation run its course. It might even end the friendship, and she’d be fine with that.

“That’s so good of you,” Iris says. “To worry about him so.”

Then Iris hugs her daughter and Julia hugs her back.

“Of course,” Iris says. “Let’s just take a break from the phone. For an hour. Just an hour.” Where is this in the parenting books or blogs? Helpful checklist when your child discovers a murdered body. Julia steps away and starts to help her father prepare dinner. Iris retreats as Kyle glances back at her with a look she knows: Really? Now? He returns to the stove, murmuring to Julia. Iris sips the wine, goes back to the window.

Somewhere in the Travis County Morgue, Danielle lies in a metal drawer, awaiting autopsy. Cold. Gone. Over. But when they were leaving the station, Iris heard Carmen Ames taking a call, jotting a note, quietly saying, “Crushed windpipe? Crushed with what?” then listening. Ames had her back to them and Julia didn’t seem to register it, but Iris did.