Will stays in the living room with Troy while Emily leads me down a long gleaming hall set with square windows at intervals. Inside each deep ledge, a perfect little bonsai tree arcs out of a terra-cotta pot like a work of art, pale green and sculptural. They don’t look real.

“Do you have a gardener?” I ask. “A housekeeper?”

“A cleaning team comes every other week from town. I do everything else.”

“That’s impressive.”

“Is it? Most women don’t have help.”

Most women aren’t Emily Hague, I think.

—

We’ve reached the end of the hall, a closed door. Emily seems reluctant to step inside, so I go first, respectfully, sensing her strain. Dozens of men have already been here, turning everything over, dusting for prints. They’ve dug through her clothes and books and photo albums, opened every drawer. These violations are necessary, but hard to watch, particularly if Emily is carrying guilt and self-blame. Possibly years’ worth, if my gut is right.

Cameron’s full-sized bed is neatly made with a simple cream-colored comforter and sham, a small blue velvet pillow shaped like a rabbit. I wonder if she’s the kind of girl who keeps everything neat and perfect all the time, or if Emily was the one to come straighten after the forensics team left, unable to stop herself.

“You were alone that night, just the two of you?” I ask. “Did Cameron seem okay?”

“Mostly. She hadn’t settled into a routine with her sophomore year. She was moodier than usual, a little anxious, I guess.”

“Did she say about what?”

“I tried not to pry. I have all these books that say teenagers need their space. Was that a mistake?”

“Teenagers are tricky.” I walk over to the bookcase, gently touching the spines.

Little Women. A Wrinkle in Time. Tess of the D’Urbervilles. Catcher in the Rye. There are fairy tales and fantasy stories, graphic novels and poetry. Rilke, T. S. Eliot, Anne Sexton. This is the bookcase of a budding writer. “Where’s the work you mentioned?” I ask. “The stuff her teacher praised?”

“I’m not sure. She’s always been really private, even as a little girl.”

“She sorted out her feelings on paper. Did she draw too?”

“Yes. More when she was young. How did you know?”

“Just a guess. If we could find some recent writing, we might have more clues to what was going on with your daughter.” I reach under the lip of the bookcase and find nothing, not even dust. I open her desk drawer, and then feel under the edges of her mattress.

“She might have kept it all in her locker at school,” Emily suggests.

“Maybe. I’m sure Sheriff Flood’s team has collected all that, but I’ll double-check. Just in case we missed something.”