"She got it pierced last year." Paul gave a strained laugh. Will looked back at him and Paul took this as a sign to continue. "She and her best friend went to Florida and came back with..." He shook his head. "You think shit like that's funny when you're a kid, but when you're a parent and your daughter comes home with a ring in her belly. .." His face crumpled as he fought emotions.
Will turned his attention back to the girl. There was a silver ring looped through the skin of her belly button.
Paul asked, "Was she raped?"
"Probably." He'd said the word too fast. The sound hung in the stagnant air.
"Before or after?" Paul's voice shook. He was more than familiar with the dark deeds men were capable of.
The blood on her abdomen and chest was smeared, indicating someone had lain on top of her after the worst of the beating was over. Still, Will told him, "The coroner will have to answer that. I can't tell."
"Are you lying to me?"
"No," Will answered, trying not to look at the handprint, to let the guilt eat him up inside so that he ended up being the one to tell this man the horrible truth about his daughter's violent, degrading death.
Suddenly he felt Paul behind him.
Will stood, blocking him. "This is a crime scene. You need to—"
Paul's mouth dropped open. He slumped against Will like all the air had left his body. "It's not ..." His mouth worked, tears welling into his eyes. "It's not her."
Will tried to turn the man away from the sight of his daughter. "Let's go downstairs. You don't need to see any more of this."
"No," Paul countered, his fingers digging into Will's arm. "I mean it. It's not her." He shook his head back and forth, vehement. "It's not Emma."
"I know this is hard for you."
"Fuck you, with what you know!" Paul pushed himself away from Will. "Has anybody ever told you that your daughter is dead?" He kept shaking his head, staring at the girl. "That's not her."
Will tried to reason with him. "Her navel is pierced like you said."
He shook his head, his words choking in his throat. "It's not—"
"Come on," Will coaxed, pushing him back a few steps, trying to keep him from contaminating the scene any more than he already had.
Paul's words came out in an almost giddy rush. "Her hair, Trash. Emma's got longer hair than that. It goes down to her back almost. And she's got a birthmark on her right arm—Emma does. Look, there's nothing there. There's no birthmark."
Will checked the arm. Except for the blood, the skin was a perfect white.
"Right arm," Paul insisted, annoyed. He pointed to the other arm "She's got a birthmark." When Will did not respond, he took out his wallet. Receipts and papers fell onto the floor as he dug around inside. "It's weird, shaped like a handprint. The skin's darker there." He found what he was looking for and handed Will a photograph. Emma was much younger in the picture. She was wearing a cheerleading outfit. One arm was cocked to her hip, holding a pom-pom. Paul was right; the birthmark looked as if someone had wrapped his hand around her arm and left a print.
Still, Will said, "Paul, let's not—"
"Abby! It's not her. It's not Emma!" Paul was laughing, elated. "Look at her arm, Trash. There's nothing there. This isn't Emma. It's gotta be Kayla. They look alike. They trade clothes all the time. It's got to be her!"
Abigail ran upstairs, Faith fast behind her.
"Stay back." Will blocked their way, holding out his arms like a crossing guard, physically pushing Paul back. The man was still smiling a fool's grin. All he was thinking was that his daughter wasn't dead. His mind hadn't made the next leap.
"Keep them here," Will told Faith. She nodded, stepping in front of the parents. Carefully, Will walked back toward the dead girl. He crouched down again, studying the shoe prints, the spray on the wall. Crossing the dead girl's body was a fine arc of blood that caught his attention. It went just under her breasts like a finely drawn line. Will hadn't noticed it the first time, but right now, he would have bet his pension that the blood had come from the kid downstairs.
"It's not her," Paul insisted. "It's not Emma."
Faith began, "It's hard sometimes when you lose someone you love. Denial is understandable."
Paul exploded. "Would you listen to me, you stupid bitch? I'm not going through the twelve steps of grief. I know what my fucking daughter looks like!"
Leo called, "Everything okay up there?"
"It's under control," Faith said, sounding like the exact opposite was true.
Will looked at the dead girl's bare feet. The soles were clean, seemingly the only part of her body that didn't have some pattern of blood on it.
He stood up, asking Abigail, "Tell me what happened."
She was shaking her head, unable to let herself hope. "Is it Emma? Is that her?"
Will took in the faint streaks of dark red on the skirt of Abigail's white tennis dress, the transfer patterns across her chest. He kept his voice firm, even though his heart was thumping hard enough to press against his ribs. "Tell me exactly what happened from the moment you got here."
"I was in my car—"
"From the stairs," Will interrupted. "You came up the stairs. Did you go to the body? Did you come into this area?"
"I stood here," she said, indicating the floor in front of her.
"What did you see?"
Tears streamed down her cheeks. Her mouth moved, trying to get out words as her eyes scanned the dead body. Finally, she said, "I saw him standing over her. He had a knife in his hand. I felt threatened."
"I know you felt like your life was in danger," Will assured her. "Just tell me what happened next."
Her throat worked. "I panicked. I stepped back and fell down the stairs."
"What did he do?"
"He came after me—came down the stairs."
"Did he have the knife in his hand?" She nodded.
"Was it raised?"
She nodded again, then shook her head. "I don't know. No. It was at his side." She tightened her hand to her side to show him. "He was running down the stairs. It was at his side."
"Did he raise the knife when he got to the bottom of the stairs?"
"I kicked him before he got to the bottom. To throw him off balance."
"What happened to the knife?"
"He dropped it when he fell. I— He hit me in the head. I thought he was going to kill me."
Will turned around, looked at the shoe prints again. They were scattered, chaotic. Two people had stepped in the blood, walked back and forth, struggled. "Are you sure you didn't come into the hallway up here at all?"
She nodded her head.
"Listen to me very carefully. You didn't walk around up here? You didn't go to your daughter? You didn't step in any blood?"
"No. I was here. Right here. I stopped at the top of the stairs and he came toward me. I thought he was going to kill me. I thought ..." She put her hand to her mouth, unable to continue. Her voice cracked as she asked her husband, "It's not Em?"