Burklow was moving in their direction. When he arrived, he nodded at the ME, but spoke to French. “We’ve been working from the inside out. No sign of her clothes or personal belongings. No usable footprints or tire tracks, but the chain out front is cut. Looks like they came right up the main drive.”

“Pretty brazen.”

“Dark of night. Light traffic. We did find this.” He brandished a clear, plastic evidence bag.

“Is that what I think it is?”

Burklow handed over the bag. It contained a crumpled package made of foil and white paper. “We found two more empty packages like this one.”

“Looks fresh.”

“I’d say it’s brand-new.”

“Oh, the sick bastard…”

“I know. I’m sorry.”

French walked away, and studied the sky as if it were the last clean thing in the world. The ME looked a question, so Burklow explained. “Polaroid film,” he said. “The son of a bitch took pictures.”

It was still early when French left the crime scene. He tried to stay, but couldn’t focus, couldn’t lead.

“What do you mean you’re leaving? Where are you going?”

“I can’t talk about it, Ken.”

“We still have work to do. Uniforms are canvassing. We haven’t identified the body. The hell’s wrong with you?”

French shook his head; kept walking. He’d buried thoughts of his son, but Jason was out there. So was an explanation.

Please, God …

“Bill, stop walking away from me. I’m talking to you.”

Burklow trailed him to the car, two steps back. French found his keys. “Just wrap the scene, Ken. Whatever it takes. Remind everyone to keep this quiet. I’ll meet you at the station later.”

“The station? Our next stop should be the medical examiner’s office. He’ll have her on the table by now.”

“Fine, I’ll meet you there.”

“Bill. What the hell?”

“Step away, Ken.”

“Not without an explanation.”

“I mean it. Step away.” He put a palm on his partner’s chest, and pushed hard enough to make him stumble back. He wanted to apologize, but was in a river of guilt, and drowning.

Her name is Tyra …

Wrenching at the key, French fired the cruiser and stepped on the gas, spraying dirt and gravel. Watching his partner in the rearview, he felt a twinge, but the river took that, too.

Sooner or later they’d find her name.

Jason’s would be next.

The heavy cruiser blew down the dirt road, but traffic at the four-lane held him up. A city bus. A tractor trailer. When a gap opened, he turned for the quarry, and stepped on it. Jason mattered, but Gibby came first.

It was Friday.

Senior Skip.

French found him in a field above the stony beach, sitting with Chance on the hood of a car. They were laughing and drinking, and terribly young.

Chance saw him first. “Oh shit.” He hid the beer behind his back.