“I was twenty-three when I lost my mother,” she said. “I was devastated, but at least I have a lot of memories to look back on. She was there for every significant event of my life: my first day of school, Brownies, school plays, my first date, the first breakup, going off to college.

“Haley won’t have that. I can’t imagine being that young, that small and vulnerable, and not having anyone.”

Vince slipped his arms around her and kissed the top of her head. “She has you.”

“For now.”

Anne gave a long sigh, leaning into her husband’s solid warmth. She watched the little girl’s eyes flutter closed, her impossibly long eyelashes curling against her cheek, and marveled at how quickly she had become attached to Haley Fordham. She would have to be careful not to pass the point of no return. Their paths were crossing now for a reason, and they would eventually go their separate ways—after they had finished helping each other.

She was already dreading that day.

A deputy came to the door and knocked hesitantly on the glass.

“Mr. Leone? I have a message from Detective Mendez. He said to tell you we found the breasts.”

Chapter 28

28

The two orbs of flesh in the box had ceased to resemble breasts. The skin was turning black and slimy, and was slipping off in places. The nipples had shriveled and hardened like old raisins. The fatty tissue had become gelatinous. The smell was horrific.

“The mailman brought this?” Mendez asked. “What the hell did he think was in it? Rotten fish?”

Milo Bordain nearly gagged. She sat on an old bent-willow settee on the porch of her sprawling ranch house. She didn’t seem nearly as formidable after losing her lunch in the rosebushes.

Her face was pale and waxy, and she was sweating, despite the chill coming on now as the sun slipped behind the mountains at the backside of the ranch.

The box sat on a footstool a few feet away. Mendez crouched down to examine the postmark.

“Lompoc,” he said. “Mailed on Monday.”

It was now Wednesday. The pathologist had estimated Marissa Fordham’s death as having taken place sometime on Sunday.

“I guess we can add severed body parts to the list of things that should be thrown out after three days,” he said to Hicks.

“Fish, houseguests, and rotting human flesh,” Hicks said.

Mendez glanced back at Mrs. Bordain to be sure she was out of earshot. She had gone to the far end of the long porch to be sick again.

The average citizen didn’t appreciate cop humor. Not that there was anything funny about the situation. It was just a way of releasing the tension that built doing a sometimes-grim job.

“No return address,” he said, standing.

“Why send them to her?”

“She supported Marissa Fordham.”

“Our killer is a demented art critic?”

Mendez shrugged. “Everybody’s got something to say.”