“That won’t be a problem.” I try again to get the information I need. “Mrs. Horner, when’s the last time you saw your daughter?”

“Two days ago. She was . . . going out. She’d just gotten her hair cut. Bought a new sweater at the mall. It was brown with sequins at the collar. She looked so pretty.”

“Was she with someone?”

“Her friend Connie. They were going to that new club.”

“What club?”

“The Brass Rail.”

My officers have been called there on several occasions. The place draws a young crowd high on hormones and booze and God only knows what else. “What’s Connie’s last name?”

“Spencer.”

I pull a pad from my pocket and jot. “What time did Amanda leave here?”

“Seven-thirty or so. She was always running late. Waited till the last minute to do everything.” She squeezes her eyes closed and chokes back a sob. “I can’t believe this is happening.”

“Did Amanda have a boyfriend?”

“No. She was such a good girl. So young and pretty. Smart, too. Smarter than me and her daddy put together.” She looks at me, her mouth trembling. “She was going back to college this fall.”

I have no words to console her.

“Do you mind if we take a look at her room?” I ask.

She gives me a thousand-yard stare.

“Could you show us her room, ma’am?” Glock asks quietly.

Keening softly, she shuffles toward the hall. I follow close behind. We pass a tiny bathroom. I see pink towels with lace and a matching shower curtain. She stops at the next door, pushes it open. “This is her room. Her things.” Her body convulses with sobs. “Oh, my baby. My poor, sweet baby girl.”

I step past her and try to assess what I see with the unbiased eye of a cop. Not easy to do when the grief in the room is so palpable you can’t breathe.

The bed is a twin. Unmade. With lacy pink sheets and a matching comforter. Little-girl bedclothes, I think. Probably had them since she was a kid.

A lamp, alarm clock and several framed photographs sit atop the single night table. I cross to it and pick up a photo of Amanda and a young man. “Who’s this?”

Belinda blinks back tears. “Donny Beck.”

“Boyfriend?”

She nods. “Ex. He was crazy about Amanda.”

“Was she serious about him?”

“She liked him, but not as much as he liked her.”

I exchange looks with Glock. Another photo depicts Amanda atop a sorrel horse, grinning as if she’d just won the Kentucky Derby.

“She loves horses.” Belinda Horner looks as if she’s aged ten years in five minutes. Her eyes and cheeks are sunken, her makeup streaked down her face like that of a sad clown. “Harold and I bought her riding lessons for her high school graduation. We couldn’t really afford it. But she loved it so much.”

I replace the photo. “Did she keep a diary, ma’am? Journal? Anything like that?”