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prestigious awards and certificates at eye level outside her daughter’s bedroom. That way, when Carol walked outside her bedroom door every morning and returned each night, she would always be reminded of her extraordinary talents.
    Car doors slammed. ID, the section of the lab that dealt exclusively with crime scene photography, had arrived. Darby grabbed her umbrella and headed out.
    She told Mary Beth Pallis about the body and the footwear impressions in the kitchen. After Mary Beth left, Darby examined the porch steps.
    The only interesting item she found was a discarded matchbook at the bottom step. She placed an evidence cone next to it. She backed up and stared at the porch. It hung suspended above the ground by columns. Latticework, also painted white, covered the perimeter. To the left of the stairs was a small door. Inside were plastic garbage cans and recycling bins.
    One of the garbage cans tipped over. A raccoon was in there, its eyes reflected in the flashlight –
    ‘Oh my God.’
    Darby opened the small door. The woman underneath the porch started to scream.

Chapter 8
    Darby dropped her flashlight. She didn’t pick it up. She stood absolutely still, staring wide-eyed at the woman who was now pressing a garbage can against the doorway to prevent anyone from entering.
    Patrolmen came running. One of them grabbed Darby roughly by the arm and yanked her away from the door. He reached inside to move the garbage can.
    The woman’s teeth, what few of them remained, sunk deep into exposed skin of his wrist. She twisted her head ferociously from side to side like a mongrel dog trying to rip free the last piece of meat from a bone.
    ‘My hand! The goddamn bitch is biting my hand!’
    Another patrolman moved in with a can of Mace. The woman saw it, let go of her bite and started knocking over the barrels and recycling containers as she screamed, scurrying back underneath the porch.
    Darby pushed the patrolman away and slammed the porch door shut.
    The patrolman holding the Mace said, ‘What the hell you doing?’
    ‘We’re going to give this woman some breathingroom to calm down,’ Darby said. The first patrolman, his eyes tearing, grabbed the dangling meat of his bleeding wrist with a shaking hand. ‘Go and help him.’
    ‘All due respect, hon, your job is to –’
    ‘Move everyone out of the driveway – and while you’re at it, make sure the ambulance doesn’t pull in with its sirens blaring.’
    Darby turned and addressed the crowd of men who had gathered around her. ‘Back up, I want everyone to back up now.’
    No one moved.
    ‘Do what she says.’ Banville’s voice. He emerged from the crowd, his black hair flattened by the rain.
    The patrolmen moved out of the driveway. Banville stepped up next to her. Darby explained what she had seen.
    ‘She’s probably a crack addict,’ Banville said. There’s an abandoned house down the road where they all hang out.’
    ‘Let me try and talk her out of there.’
    Banville stared at the porch door, water dripping over his lumpy face. With his hangdog expression, he bore a striking resemblance to the cartoon character Droopy Dog.
    ‘Fine,’ he said. ‘But under no circumstances are you to go underneath the porch.’
    Darby put down her umbrella. Slowly, she opened the porch door. No screaming. She knelt in acold puddle. The flashlight was still on and gave her enough light to see.
    During a college history course, Darby had seen grainy black-and-white footage taken of prisoners inside Hitler’s concentration camps. The woman underneath the porch had clearly been starved. Most of her hair had fallen out; what little remained was thin and stringy. Her face was incredibly gaunt, the cheeks sunken, the skin waxy and white. The only color came from the blood around her lips.
    ‘I’m not going to hurt you,’ Darby said. ‘I just want to talk.’
    The woman didn’t look at her so much as through her. Vacant eyes, Darby thought.
    Then, incredibly, the