He knew how Marisa felt. They'd been close. But they were too late.

Brady cleared his throat. "I didn't want to say this in front of Marisa, but there was blood all over the living room. That's the murder scene. And maybe that's why he left. He hadn't made any effort to clean it up. Maybe he couldn't."

"What do you mean?"

"The murder was gruesome. Not the work of a cold-blooded killer. He lost his temper and stabbed her. And then he had to live with it. Maybe he just couldn't stand to be around the reminders."

Nate looked at the closed door before turning back to Brady. "Do they think...?" He could hardly say the word. "Is there any evidence that he hurt Ana?"

"They're analyzing the blood now. Garrison's partner's there, and he says that, at first glance, based on the spatter, he thinks all the blood came from a single victim in the living room. There's no reason to believe Ana was involved."

"But they don't know for sure."

Brady's lips thinned. "It's not an exact science, and they haven't had enough time."

"Poor Ana." Nate tried to imagine what it had been like for the little girl. Had she witnessed her aunt's death? Had she heard the screams, the violence?

Brady continued. "Thing is, it was a two-bedroom place, and the smaller of the two bedrooms had fresh urine stains on the mattress. Could be Ana's."

The girl was potty trained, of course, but under those circumstances... What child wouldn't regress?

"Fresh urine means she's alive," Brady said, "or at least she was when they left. That's good news."

"You need to tell Marisa that," Nate said. "But not the rest." He glanced at Sam, who'd been oddly quiet throughout the exchange. Her elbows were on her knees, her head in her hands. Her eyes were closed, and tears dripped off her cheeks. He slid to the far end of the couch and touched her knee. "Hey, you okay?"

She looked up and swiped a tissue. "My heart just breaks for them."

He couldn't speak for the emotion. He nodded and dropped his head.

Sam lowered her head and resumed praying. If there were a God—and Nate had never wanted more to believe—then if anybody could reach him, it was Sam.

They needed all the help they could get.

Chapter 27

MARISA BRUSHED HER teeth, sat on the bathroom floor, and leaned against the wall, spent. She hated vomiting. She'd rather have fever and chills for a week than throw up once.

But she'd trade her health, her hope, her everything if only she could get her daughter back.

"Knock, knock." Rae stood outside the open bathroom door and peeked in. "You okay?"

She started to nod but stopped. She wasn't okay. She'd never be okay.

"Stupid question." Rae stepped inside. "What can I do?"

"Nothing."

"Water?"

"Maybe in a few minutes."