“Can you let me know when I can take my daughter home? I want to have her in Pennsylvania near me.”

“Yes, ma’am. As soon as we can.”

Durand leaned toward Mahler. “Elise wasn’t a bad girl. She tried hard to do the right thing.”

“This wasn’t Elise’s fault, Ms. Durand,” Mahler told her. “We’re going to find who did this.”

Carol Durand looked at Eden. “She missed her father. My husband, Sebastien, didn’t want a family. He gave Elise her name and books of poetry, and then he left. He hated a child’s noise—the crying. He was very sensitive to sounds. He liked only beautiful sounds in the house. He’d say, ‘Carol, chérie, can’t you take her outside?’ He wanted to be a composer, but he didn’t have the talent. He had other jobs, tending bar, pouring drinks, where he learned to be an alcoholic. He was a disappointed man. I disappointed him. Elise disappointed him. Everything disappointed him.”

The room fell silent.

Mahler stood to leave. “Thank you for speaking with us, Ms. Durand. We appreciate your taking the time.”

“You look familiar, Mr. Mahler.” The woman looked up at him and smiled. “I think Elise mentioned you. Did you know her?”

Mahler smiled back and shook his head. “No, I’m sorry. I didn’t.”

Durand reached across the table and took Mahler’s right hand in her own. “When I saw Elise just now, lying in that room, she looked so neat and still. Not at all hurt. I wanted to thank you for taking such good care of my daughter.”

Mahler looked down at the spot where the woman held his hand. He felt her squeeze his fingers. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m sorry for your loss, Ms. Durand.” He gently pulled away.

For a moment, the woman’s hand hung suspended in the air, and Mahler wondered if he should reach out to hold it again. But she slowly settled back in her chair, and he watched her recede into herself once more.

Chapter Twenty-Five

(i)

(THURSDAY, 12:08 P.M.)

A balding, red-faced man stood behind the table in the interview room. The visitor, who wore a wrinkled shirt and baggy corduroys, held a large envelope in one hand.

Coyle peered at the name tag pasted on the man’s chest. “Rushton Tyndale?”

“Rushton Allan Tyndale,” the man said. “37 Rolling Oak Crescent, Santa Rosa.”

Coyle sat at the table and waved Tyndale into a chair opposite him. He covered his mouth to mask a yawn. Except for a nap on the sofa in the break room, he’d been awake for two days.