This isn’t the first time I’ve had to deliver bad news. Two years ago, when I’d been on the job for less than a week, I was forced to tell Jim and Marilyn Stettler that their sixteen-year-old son wrapped his brand-new Mustang around a telephone pole, killing himself and his fourteen-year-old sister in the process. It was one of the hardest things I’ve ever had to do in the course of my law enforcement career. It was the first time in my life I drank alone. But it wasn’t the last.

I go to Belinda Horner, set my hand on her shoulder and squeeze. “I’m very sorry.”

She shakes off my hand and turns on me. She looks like she wants to tear me apart. “How could this happen?” She is screaming now. Overcome with grief and an impotent rage that is about to burgeon out of control. “How could someone hurt her?”

“We don’t know, ma’am, but I promise you we’re doing everything we can to find out.”

She stares at me a moment longer, then clenches her fists in her hair as if to pull it out. “Oh, dear God. Harold. I have to call Harold. How am I going to tell him our baby is gone?”

Spotting a phone on the counter, I cross to it and pick it up. “Mrs. Horner, let me call him for you. What’s his number?”

She wipes her eyes with the back of her hand, leaving a smear of mascara. Her voice trembles as she recites the number from memory. I dial, hating it that Harold Horner’s life is about to be torn apart, too. But I don’t want this woman left alone. I have a crime to solve and I can’t do that from here.

Horner answers on the first ring. I identify myself and tell him there’s an emergency at home. He asks about his wife first, and I tell him she’s all right. When he asks about his daughter, I ask him to come home and hang up.

Belinda Horner stands at the window, her arms wrapped around herself. Glock stands near the door looking out at the bleak landscape beyond. His forehead is slicked with sweat. I feel that same terrible sweat between my shoulder blades.

“Mrs. Horner, when’s the last time you saw Amanda?” I ask.

The question elicits a look that gives me a chill. “I want to see her,” she says hollowly. “Where is she? Where’s my baby?”

Before I can answer, her knees buckle. I rush toward her, but Glock is faster and catches her beneath the arms just as her knees hit the floor. “Easy, ma’am,” he says.

Glock and I help her to the sofa. “I know this is hard, Mrs. Horner,” I say. “Please try to calm down.”

She turns tear-bright eyes on me. “Where is she?”

“The hospital in Millersburg. The chaplain is waiting for you there if you need him.”

“I’m not very religious.” She struggles to her feet, glances around the room, but she doesn’t move. She seems confused, not sure where she is or what to do next. “I really want to see her.”