Say You're Sorry by Michael Robotham Page B

Her legs were shaved… and under her arms. She smelled like a Body Shop and she wasn’t hungry. We were always hungry.
    I lay on the bunk that night and watched the shadows move across the wall beneath the window. Jealous. She was his favorite. He gave her nice things.
    “What happens up there?” I asked her.
    “It doesn’t matter.”
    “Do you know where we are?”
    “No.”
    “What did you see?”
    “Nothing.”
    Then she curled up and went to sleep. She didn’t have nightmares, not like me. Sometimes she slept so quietly I got frightened that she was dead and would tiptoe over to her bunk and put my face close to her face, listening; or I’d blow gently in her ear until she snuffled and rolled over.
    Then I’d be sure.

9
     
    T he hospital cafeteria is an echoing space full of scraping chairs and easy-wipe tables. It’s mid-afternoon and already dark outside. The lunchtime meals are warmed over in the trays: lasagna and baked vegetables and dried-out roast.
    John Leece slumps in a chair, staring at the window as though looking at something that he can’t quite bring into focus.
    “I’ve never really understood what people see in alcohol, but sometimes I wish I was a drinker,” he says. “It seems to bring people comfort. My father wouldn’t touch the stuff, but my mother has the occasional sherry or lager shandy.”
    “What did you see in there?”
    “I can’t comment until I talk to the police.”
    “OK, we won’t talk about the post-mortem. I’ll ask you general questions.”
    He nods.
    “How long would a person survive outside without shelter in a blizzard like the one on Saturday?”
    “A matter of hours.”
    “The bruises and cuts…”
    “She was wandering around in a blizzard. She could have bumped into trees and fallen into ditches.”
    “Nobody has reported her missing.”
    “Maybe she’s not a local.”
    “They haven’t found a vehicle.”
    Dr. Leece presses his thumbs into his eye sockets. “I don’t know. Sometimes I’m grateful that I don’t have to understand human behavior.”
    Augie Shaw saw a woman standing barefoot in the middle of the road. It has to be the same one. She didn’t take her shoes off next to the pond. She wasn’t wearing any to begin with. Why run off? Why was she outside in a blizzard? Who was she running from?
    “Did you notice anything else unusual about the scene?” I ask.
    “We found a dog.”
    “What?”
    “It was frozen with her. Maybe the dog went in after her or she was trying to rescue it. Once she hit the water, the cold overwhelmed her and she didn’t have the strength to drag herself out.”
    “Was it a black and white Jack Russell?”
    The pathologist stares at me. “How could you possibly know that?”
    “One went missing from the farmhouse. Small, black and white, I figured it was probably a Jack Russell.”
    “The Heymans’ dog?”
    “Yes.”
    “Why would it be with the girl?”
    It’s the same question I’ve been asking myself and I keep coming back to something that Grievous told me at the farmhouse.
    “Do you keep the dental records of missing persons?”
    “Of course.”
    “Can you look up a file for me?”
    “Certainly. Who?”
    “It’s a girl who went missing a few years ago. Natasha McBain.”
    Dr. Leece’s eyes bobble behind his glasses. “She was one of the Bingham Girls.”
    “Her family used to live at the farmhouse, but they moved out after Natasha went missing.”
    The pathologist’s mouth opens; a question half formed on his lips.
    “So the dog?”
    “What if they left it behind?”

10
     
    C harlie is waiting for me at the hotel suite, sprawled out on one of the twin beds as though bored with life. I kiss her forehead. She looks past me at the TV. Silent. Righteous.
    The room is dully corporate, decorated in navy blues, with a high ceiling and an ornate plaster rosette above the hanging light.
    “Sorry I’m late. I got held up.”
    “All day?”
    “I left you a message.”
    “Who was