“This isn’t a garbage dump.” It’s the first thing Emma can think of to say.

“That’s right. And this scene’s different in other ways, too. I want your first impressions, including any thoughts you might have about the victims. You can’t take notes—you’ll just have to record everything behind your eyes. And I want your questions. Questions usually lead to new questions, new ideas. I’ll take whatever you’ve got.” Cooper stops, looks at them both. “Okay, tell me now. Are you sure you want to go in? Because this is it. Once you see this stuff, you can’t unsee it. It changes you.”

Emma realizes her hands are shaking. She squeezes them into fists. “I’ve seen this stuff before, Mr. Cooper.”

Bell just nods, very sober.

Cooper gives them a final up-and-down, as if he’s documenting the people they were before entering. For a moment, his face looks very sad and wise. Emma thinks he’s going to say something more, but he just closes his mouth and indicates the entry point with his chin.

Burns ushers them over. Before they can go through the sneak’s door, a uniformed deputy exits, looking ashen. Emma and Bell stand back. The deputy makes it about five good paces out of the building before he gags and throws up into a patch of gravel.

Emma glances at Bell, sees him swallow. Then Burns is saying, “Excuse me? This way,” and time slows down.

Ducking low, into the smell of rust and old brick. And then the rank smell of blood.

They’re inside now. Air wafts around her, indicating the size of the space. Neither she nor Bell look at each other. Emma looks at the floor, notices the pulverized remains of mortar under her covered shoes. In the crack where part of the concrete floor has split, a wild strawberry is growing.

Camera flashes go off nearby. Something inside her is starting to coalesce. A familiar feeling. She doesn’t want to look up. She hears the hiss and static of handheld radios, the click of shutters, the sizzle of tripod lights, muted conversation. People move in her peripheral vision, all made anonymous in blue Tyvek. She recognizes Glenn Neilsen’s fishing tackle box, set to one side.

A stack of bricks occupies a corner near the illegal entryway, and by it, a pile of clothing protected by scene tape and evidence markers. Emma sees a red T-shirt with glitter on it. Faded jeans. A pair of striped shorts with a brown leather belt, flopped open. Beside the pile lies a tumble of shoes—a pair of Keds with the laces untied, a running shoe, a green sandal. At least three victims, then. She closes her eyes.

Somewhere far off, in her own head, a thin, high keening sound.

Her heartbeat hammers her ribs. God, she’s so tired. But she has to look at this. It’s what she came here to see.

She takes a shuddering breath in through her nose, registers the ozone scent of decaying metal. The smell of heat from the lights, and sweat from the people in the space. The low, raw notes of slaughter.