Missing Pieces by Joy Fielding Read Free Book Online Page B

one for softdrinks, the other for candies, against two of the walls, recessed fluorescent lights humming from the ceiling, illuminating a small, unimpressive landscape painting, a
No Smoking
sign printed in fifteen different languages, a small sign that read:
Sometimes it’s the little things you do that make the big difference
—in an effort to ward off my mounting panic.
    I’d never seen a dead body before, or even a picture of one, other than on the television news, and I didn’t know how I was going to react to the sight of a teenage girl, a girl the same age as my older daughter, lying dead on a table, even if her death was presented via the distancing lens of a camera. And then another terrifying thought hit me. “Is there any trauma to the face?” I asked, struggling to keep my voice steady.
    “We wouldn’t show you the picture if there was,” he said.
    “How did the girl die?” Donna Lokash asked from her chair. She was staring at the door to the back room, although her eyes were blank, and it was unlikely she saw anything at all.
    “Multiple stab wounds,” Officer Gatlin answered, his voice low, as if trying to minimize the impact of his words.
    “Oh God,” Donna moaned.
    “When?” I asked.
    “Probably several days ago. A group of kids found her body this morning in a park in Stuart.”
    “But Amy disappeared almost a year ago,” I said. “What makes you think it’s her?”
    “She fits the general description,” he said.
    “What happens if I’m not able to make a definite identification?”
    “We can check the dental records, if there are any,” Officer Gatlin said. “Or we might ask Mrs. Lokash tobring in Amy’s hairbrush, something with her fingerprints on it, lift the prints from that, compare the two.”
    The door at the back of the room suddenly opened. A tall, good-looking man with salt-and-pepper hair combed straight back off his face crossed into the waiting area, a photograph in his hand.
    “Oh God, oh God,” wailed Donna, rocking back and forth in her seat, arms clasped around her stomach.
    “This is Fred Sheridan, one of the medical examiner’s assistants,” Officer Gatlin said, as I rose to my feet. “Are you ready, Mrs. Sinclair?”
    “I’m not sure,” I replied honestly.
    “Take your time,” Fred Sheridan said, his voice husky, full of gravel.
    Several slow steps brought me to his side. I swallowed, closed my eyes, said a silent prayer. Please let me know one way or the other, I prayed, conjuring up a quick image of the last time I’d seen Amy, enlarging it, focusing in on each facet of her face, dissecting it piece by piece: the dimples on either side of her round mouth, the freckles dotting the sides of her upturned nose, bright eyes brown and wide apart. She was a pretty girl, of average height and weight, which meant she probably thought she was too short, too fat. I shook my head, opened my eyes. If only they knew how beautiful they really are, I thought, thinking again of my daughter Sara, as I glanced down at the photograph in Fred Sheridan’s outstretched hand.
    “She was wearing a red barrette,” Donna Lokash suddenly announced.
    “What?” I turned away before the picture had a chance to register on my brain.
    “When she went out that night, she was wearing a red barrette. It was just a silly plastic thing, a cupid sitting on a bunch of hearts, but she loved it. One of the kids she used to babysit for gave it to her, and she misplaced it, andwas very upset, until I found it one morning when I was straightening up her room. It had fallen behind her dresser, and she was so excited when I showed it to her. She was wearing it in her hair, just above her right ear, the night she went out. She said it was her good-luck charm.” Donna’s voice broke off abruptly. She lapsed into silence, stared at the floor.
    “Is this Amy?” Fred Sheridan asked gently, his words pulling me back toward the photograph.
    The face I found myself staring at was young and