“Nobody,” he said, “no matter who they were, what they did, should go through this. It was terrible, what happened to Danielle. I am trying to find out who killed her. I’m not judging her. I’m looking for information.”

I examined the picture in my hand. Meaningless shapes and colors arranged themselves and I saw a person, and blood. Lots of blood. My eyes went out of focus again and I dropped the picture. He handed me another one, a close up of Danielle’s face, puffy and covered in brown blotches. I recognized her jawline, and her arm in the foreground of the photograph, bruised and blotchy, the fingers curled. One long nail hung broken, still attached by glue to a corner of the nail bed. The photographs had been taken in a hotel room: a lamp, a seascape screwed into the wall. In places brown blood obscured everything.

“It was a blunt instrument,” he said. “It was heavy.”

The next one showed her chest, pushed in and misshapen. Her fake boobs sat on top of the wrecked body, intact, pointing the wrong way. Blood soaked her blouse.

“Broken ribs,” he said. “The bone shards punctured her lung. She could have died from that or the blood loss, we’re still trying to determine that. Some of the injuries are postmortem. Do you understand what that means, Ms. Ford? The person who did this kept beating her after she was dead.”

I closed my eyes and tried to breathe. My mouth flooded with saliva.

“You’re not gonna throw up, are you?” he said.

He grabbed the wastebasket and set it down next to me. I gripped the table’s edge and stood. I had to get out, get away from those pictures.

“I don’t feel right,” I said, but I couldn’t hear myself because of the traffic sounds loud in my ears. I saw white.

When I regained consciousness I seemed to be lying on the floor. I couldn’t hear. Nausea circled my body. The detective stood far above me, and I watched a uniformed cop hand him some brown paper towels and a cup of water. My head hurt. My arm hurt. I touched my head and my fingers came away wet.

“I don’t think it’s bad,” the detective said to the other cop. “The head always bleeds a lot.” He knelt beside me and said my name. “Ms. Ford? Charlotte? Can you focus on my hand? Follow my hand with your eyes.”

His features were indistinct, backlit by the paneled lights in the ceiling. I tried to speak but the sounds scraped.

“I’m gonna sit you up, okay?” he said.

The detective lifted me by the shoulders while trying to support my head. He held the paper towels firmly to my brow, where it hurt the most. I blinked, leaning against him, and tried to focus my vision. He propped me against the wall and straightened my legs in front of me.

“Go get a soft drink,” he told the other guy. “And a candy bar.”