Page 64 of Our Daughter's Bones

“It will take a few days.” He glowered at the image on her phone, suddenly nervous. “Just send this to me, yeah? What do you think this means?”

“No idea. But the number turned up in Abby’s journal and locker. Feels like a bit of a stretch, but we can use anything at this point.”

Daniel’s smile wavered. “Sure. Anyway, Murphy wants to see me, so I’ll see you later.”

He didn’t wait for Mackenzie to reply. He walked away, loosening his tie and fanning his neck.

Thirty-Three

A Frank Sinatra song crooned from the speakers. All the booths were empty. Two construction workers sat at the counter at the other end of the restaurant, eating hot dogs. Richard, the old but sturdy owner, cleaned the glassware behind the counter and watched the game on the television.

Mackenzie stared at a dirty spot on the checkered tablecloth. She couldn’t scrape it off with her nails—this had to be washed. But the brown spot made her queasy. She deftly moved the saltshaker to cover the blunder. Before she could breathe a sigh of relief, the waitress placed an order of eggs in front of her. And Mackenzie ricocheted untethered down another memory lane.

A pan of overcooked eggs sat on the grimy counter. The pungent smell exploded and flooded Mackenzie’s senses. Now it hung in the compact kitchen. Her throat constricted as she inhaled. She cupped her hand over her mouth to hide her squeak.

Her father stood at the stove, giving her his back. His flowery shirt was loose; his light brown hair was disheveled and unevenly grown out.

“How was school?” he asked.

“Good.”

“What’s your favorite class?”

She fumbled. Her father was never interested in her schoolwork. Did he even know what grade she was in? “I like Math.”

“Math?” he snorted. “You definitely aren’t like me.”

Thank God.

“What did you learn today?”

“Three-digit multiplication.”

“Hmm.”

What was he trying to do? She had questions—but she was scared of interrupting the delicate and rare moment. What if he got angry?

What if he hits me like he hits Mom?She curled her tiny hands into fists. Robert had never laid a finger on her. His words were his weapon—they had sent her to her room crying several times.

“What are you making?”

“Eggs.” His tone was clipped.

Did she say something wrong? She looked at the clock on the lime-green wall of the kitchen. Where was Melody?

He stood fiddling with the pan for too long. She bent to look over and saw the eggs were beginning to overcook. She bit her tongue. The house was going to reek.

“Should I open a window?”

Robert spun and glared at her. “Why?”

She plastered her back to the chair. He didn’t tear away his gaze as the eggs continued to burn, infusing the air with their stinking odor.

“I-I was feeling hot.”

Her father narrowed his eyes at her. That’s when it hit her—the fear. It was like being smothered by a pillow. There was just enough room for her to draw scraps of breath, but it was crippling and devastating. It dawned on her that she was alone in the house with him.

Mom, please…