The Body Reader by Anne Frasier Page B

death had gone from being something Delilah’s mother felt she should have seen coming—something a mother should have been able to stop—to this new thing, this even more unbearable thing.
    “What . . . ? How . . . ?”
    But she didn’t really want to know. They never wanted to know.
    Jude glanced at Uriah, and he saw a brief flash of self-doubt in her eyes before she looked down at her clasped hands, pulling herself together. Because it wasn’t about them. Their job was to deliver the information in the most compassionate way possible while maintaining the stability of the room. He wished the husband had been home. They should have waited. Come back. Let her take the kid to his friend’s. What would a few hours matter? And yet Jude was doing a good job. If they’d waited, someone else might have delivered the news. Someone who wasn’t as good at it, like a reporter.
    “She didn’t drown in the lake,” Jude said. “Which leads us to believe someone might have killed her.” She didn’t mention the sexual assault. That was good. Let it come later, once Mrs. Masters processed this new information.
    “Do you know of anyone who might want to harm your daughter?” Uriah asked. Too abrupt, but sometimes a direct question actually helped. It gave the shocked survivor something to think about.
    “No.” She frowned and shook her head in protest. “People loved her. My daughter was an angel.”
    Something that might or might not be true.
    “Did she have any enemies?” Jude asked. “Maybe at school?”
    “I’m sure she didn’t get along with everybody, but Delilah was popular. Friendly. Well liked.” She looked from Jude to Uriah, and he could see her thoughts clarifying. “She had rocks in her pockets.” Suicide.
    “We know,” Uriah said evenly. “We think someone else put them there.”
    “Do you have a child, Detective? No? Do either of you have a child? I didn’t think so.”
    This is how it often played out. The attack. And that was okay. That was fine, although Uriah was now feeling a little guilty for allowing Jude to take the brunt of it. The person delivering the news never left unscathed.
    They asked Mrs. Masters the standard questions, along with a request for names and addresses of people her daughter had been in close contact with.
    “Did Delilah have a job?” Jude asked as she folded a piece of paper containing the list of classmates.
    “No, but she volunteered.”
    “Where?”
    “A nursing home.”
    They learned the husband had moved out recently and was living in a condo in Edina. Then they asked to search Delilah’s room. Mrs. Masters led them upstairs and down a hallway with a long oriental rug, stopping in front of a white door. She pushed it open to reveal a typical teenager’s room.
    Transfixed, she stared into the space, then finally whispered, “I can’t bear to be in here.” Her voice trembled. “I have to leave. Try not to disturb anything.” She backed out of the room. “I want it left just the way it is.”
    Mothers of dead children were the most likely to shrine, although Uriah had witnessed the behavior among the relatives of adult victims too. The opposite of shrining was packing every memory out of sight and either remodeling the house or moving. “We’ll be careful,” he said.
    They searched the dresser and bed; then Uriah moved to Delilah’s laptop while Jude read her diary.
    Everything seemed almost boringly commonplace. Jude reported that the diary was filled with the expected entries: writing about friends and writing about boys and writing about classes and movies and music and bands.
    Fifteen minutes later, Uriah was about to declare the search a bust when Jude spoke his name in a way that got his attention. He glanced up from the computer as she tapped the diary, head bowed.
    “She keeps referring to a nameless person.” Jude read passages aloud. “‘We finally did it.’ Then later, she says, ‘He wants to see me again. I snuck out last