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I stand on the other side of the room, studying the wall of data we’ve collected so far, but as I turn, I stop and stare deep into the smiling eyes of a woman in a photograph.
“Melissa Boyd,” he says. “Twenty-four-year-old brow tech who lived about ten blocks from here.”
“What the fuck is a brow tech?” Scowling, I snatch up the sheet of paper and study the information on the front.
“She does eyebrows,” he says. “Like, waxes them and shapes them and all that shit.”
“Lucrative business?”
He scoffs. “Evidently. She rented salon space at a place called Diva. It’s on Third. An upscale shop that caters to all the stuff—nails, hair, brows.”
“Explains why hers were all done, I suppose.”
I let my eyes scan the sheet and pick out the details that jump out: she was five-six, and when not pregnant, a hundred and forty-five pounds. Parents. Siblings. Born and raised here in Copeland City.
“It says she’s divorced.”
“Mm.” He snags his coat from where he tossed it onto the back of a chair a couple of hours ago, and swinging it on, he checks his guns out of habit. “Kinda young to be married and divorced.” Then he shrugs. “But it happens.”
“Whose baby was it?” I set the sheet down and grab my coat too. We’re heading out to make death notifications, before the family—who no doubt saw the piece on the news—completely lose their minds with panic. “Ex-husband’s? New boyfriend’s?”
“Could be the milkman.” Tugging the door open, Fletch stands to the side and waits for me to pass through. “Since she’s divorced, her ex isn’t our first stop for notification.”
“Her parents alive?”
“Her mother is,” he clarifies. “She lives not all that far from the park, so I figure we’ll head over now and rip the band-aid off.”
“I hate this part of the job.” We move through the pit and hop onto the escalator that takes us for a ride through the bowels of the precinct. “Where’s her dad?”
“Deceased. Colon cancer a few years back. Melissa is the youngest of three siblings, but the older two are deployed military and unmarried. The missing baby will have been the first grandchild.”
* * *
“Hello, Mrs. Boyd.” The moment the mid-fifties woman opens the door, I show her my badge and know, without a doubt, she already knows.
Maybe a mother can tell. Maybe a mother simply feels something like this.
Or maybe our news segment brutally shoved a horrible truth in her face.
“My name is Detective Archer Malone, and this is my partner, Detective Charlie Fletcher. We were hoping to come inside and speak for a—”
“Just say it.” Her voice cracks with an ache that shoots to my gut. Her face is already red and puffy. Her hair, messy. She wears a well-used robe, cinched in at the waist with the tie it came with, and on her feet, slippers that’ve seen better days. “Please, Detective, just say it.”
“I’m so sorry,” Fletch starts. Taking a step forward, he offers a hand, like he knows she’s going to drop. “Mrs. Boyd, your daughter Melissa is dead.”
“No.” She bursts into tears, and when her knees tremble, I worry they’ll give out and send her sprawling to the floor. “Not my baby,” she howls. “Not my Mel.”
“Can we come in?” I keep my tone flat. Kind, but calm. “Mrs. Boyd, could we come in and talk to you for a little bit?”
“I saw her on the news,” she sobs. “I saw her face only a few minutes ago. How did this—”
“Please, Mrs. Boyd.” Pushing forward, Fletch takes the woman’s hands in his and turns her so they head inside. “Let’s sit down so we can talk about it.”
“My baby.” Grief wracks her frame so her shoulders bounce and her head droops. “My baby.”
“Can I get you a drink of water?” While Fletch takes the woman right, I head left and find the kitchen in just a few steps.
It’s neat in here. Morning dishes sit in the sink, the dishwasher sits open, as though it ran a load overnight, and Mrs. Boyd or someone else opened it to let the steam escape. A juice box sits on the counter, and in a glass jar on the fridge, jelly beans provide a rainbow of color. This kitchen is lived-in. It’s not the kind that graces the front of home design magazines, but it’s neat. Loved.
