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I’m certain is her daughter. But this is my job, and I don’t have a choice.
    I get out and start toward the trailer. The wind penetrates my parka, icy spears driving into my skin. I shiver as I climb the steps and knock. Beside me, Glock curses the cold. The storm door swings open as if someone is expecting us. I find myself looking at a middle-aged woman with bottle-blonde hair and tired, bruised eyes. She looks like she hasn’t slept for a week.
    “Mrs. Horner?” I flash my badge. “I’m Kate Burkholder, chief of police in Painters Mill.”
    Her eyes dart from me to Glock, lingering on our badges. I see hope in her eyes, but that hope is tempered with fear. She knows a personal visit from the cops isn’t a good sign. “Is this about Amanda? Have you found her? Has she been hurt?”
    “May we come in?” I ask.
    She steps back and opens the door wider. “Where is she? Is she in some kind of trouble? Was there an accident?”
    The trailer is too warm and cramped with a dozen pieces of mismatched furniture. I smell this morning’s bacon, last night’s meatloaf and the lingering remnants of hair spray. The television is tuned to a game show where some lucky contestant is bidding on a jukebox. “Are you alone, ma’am?”
    She blinks at me. “My husband is at work.” Her eyes flick from me to Glock and back to me. “What’s this about? Why are you here?”
    “Ma’am, I’m afraid I have some bad news.”
    Something wild leaps into her eyes. Some terrible precursor to grief. She knows what I’m going to say next. I see the awful anticipation as clearly as I’ve felt it in my own heart.
    “We may have found your daughter, ma’am. A young woman matching her description—”
    “Found her?” A hysterical laugh squeezes from her throat. “What do you mean
found
her? Why isn’t she here?”
    “I’m sorry, ma’am, but the woman we found is deceased.”
    “No.” She raises a hand as if to fend me off. Her expression is fierce enough to stop a train. “You’re wrong. That’s not true. Someone made a mistake.”
    “We’ll need for you to come down to the hospital in Millersburg and identify her.”
    “No.” She chokes out a sound that is part sob, part moan. “It’s not her. It can’t be.”
    I drop my gaze to the floor to give her a moment. I take those precious seconds to rein in my own emotions and try not to think about how impossible it is to stand here and fracture this woman’s world. “Is there someone we can call to be here with you, ma’am? Your husband or a family member?”
    “I don’t need anyone. Amanda’s not dead.” Gasping for breath, she presses a hand against her stomach. “She’s not.”
    “I’m sorry.” My words ring hollow even to me.
    Her hands curl into fists and she puts them against her temples. “She’s not dead. I would have known.” Her ravaged eyes meet mine. “The police made a mistake. This is a small town. Mistakes happen all the time.”
    “There was no identification, but we believe it’s her,” I say. “I’m very sorry.”
    She turns away from us and paces to the other side of the room. I glance at Glock. He looks the way I feel; like he’d rather be anywhere in the world than this hot and cramped trailer, tearing this woman’s life apart. His gaze meets mine. His nod bolsters me, and I wonder if he knows how badly I need that small sign of support at this moment.
    He speaks up for the first time. “Mrs. Horner, I know this is difficult, but we need to ask you some questions.”
    She turns to Glock and looks at him as if seeing him for the first time. Tears shimmer in her eyes. “How did she . . .”
    She knows there’s more coming; I see it in her eyes. Some people have a sixth sense when it comes to impending tragedy. She has that look. The mental brace. The ancient eyes. And I know she has received her share of blows.
    “The woman we found was murdered,” I reply.
    Belinda Horner makes a sound that is part scream, part groan.