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that sometimes. But I didn’t hear from her this morning. I called and found out no one has seen her since Saturday night. I’m really getting worried.”
    Today is Monday. I close my eyes, praying the body lying on a slab in the Millersburg morgue isn’t her daughter. But I have a bad feeling in my gut. “Has she stayed gone this long before, ma’am? Is this unusual behavior for her?”
    “She always calls to let me know if she’s staying out.”
    “When’s the last time her friend saw her?”
    “Saturday night. Connie can be incredibly irresponsible.”
    “Have you contacted the State Highway Patrol?”
    “They told me to check with the local police department. I’m afraid she’s been in a car accident or something. I’m going to start calling hospitals next.”
    I grab a pad and pen. “How old is your daughter?”
    “Twenty-one.”
    “What does she look like?”
    She describes a pretty young woman who fits the description of the victim. “Do you have a photo?” I ask.
    “I have several.”
    “Can you fax the most recent one to me?”
    “Um . . . I don’t have a fax machine, but my neighbor has a computer and scanner.”
    “That’ll work. Scan the photo and e-mail it as an attachment. Can you do that?”
    “I think so.”
    As I jot her contact information, my phone beeps. I look down and see all four lines blinking wildly. I ignore them and give her my e-mail address.
    My stomach is in knots by the time I hang up, but I have a sinking suspicion Belinda Horner is going to have a much worse day than me.
    Mona knocks and peeks in. “I got the state highway patrol on one. Channel Seven in Columbus is on line two. Doc Coblentz is on three.”
    I answer line three with a curt utterance of my name.
    “I’m about to start the autopsy,” the doc says. “I thought you might want a heads-up.”
    “I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”
    “You get an ID yet?”
    “I’m working on something now.”
    “God help the family.”
    God help us all, I silently add.
    I spend ten minutes returning calls and then open my e-mail program. When I hit Send/Receive, an e-mail with an attachment from J. Miller appears in my in-box.
    I open the attachment and find myself staring at the image of a young woman with pretty blue eyes, dark blonde hair and a dazzling smile. The likeness is unmistakable. And I know Amanda Horner will never smile like that again.
    Hitting Doc Coblentz’s direct number, I wait impatiently until he picks up. “Hold off on the autopsy.”
    “I assumed you wanted a rush.”
    I tap the Print key on my computer. “I do, but I think her parents will want to see her before you start cutting.”
    Coblentz makes a sound of sympathy. “I don’t envy you your job.”
    At this moment I hate my job with a passion I cannot describe. “I’m going to drive down to Coshocton County and pay the mother a visit. Can you give the chaplain at the hospital a call? Ask him to meet us at the morgue. We’re going to need him.”

CHAPTER 4

     
     
     
    The Horners live in the Sherwood Forest mobile home park on Highway 83 between Keene and Clark. The sky is as hard and gray as concrete as I turn onto the gravel street. Next to me, Glock studies the map I printed before leaving.
    “There’s Sebring Lane,” he says, pointing.
    I make a right and see a dozen mobile homes lined up like Matchbox cars on either side of the street. “What’s the lot number?”
    “Thirty-five, there at the end.”
    I park the Explorer in front of a blue and white 12 by 60 Liberty mobile home circa 1980. A living room extension juts from the side, giving it a haphazard look. But the lot is well kept. A newish Ford F-150 pickup sits in the driveway. I see green curtains at the kitchen window. Residual Christmas lights encircle the storm door. An aluminum trash can overflows at the curb. An ordinary home about to be shattered.
    I’d rather cut off my hand than look into Belinda Horner’s eyes and ask her to identify a body