“Cuts fingers off people, but is careful to keep the child fed.”

“Some violent offenders can care about family and friends and draw a line between their two worlds,” Ramsey said.

Yeah, it was called compartmentalization. Keep a firm line between light and dark. Some killers could manage it for decades. For others, a simple trigger shattered the illusion and was usually their downfall. “But even for the most hardened, those worlds often collide eventually.”

“Yes, they do.”

She hoped for Elena’s sake the wall had been firmly in place until the accident. “The driver’s sense of self-preservation trumps any of the snacks and toys. Cheap food is easy to come by. Freedom is not.”

“Did anyone see the driver run away after they heard the crash?” Jackson asked.

“No,” Sheriff Jones said. “We’ll check with the residents and see who has private security footage.”

“You might get lucky,” Ramsey said.

“I’ll put a couple of deputies on it,” Sheriff Jones said.

She stared at the jar of digits floating in the viscous liquid but discovered she had no words. Many of the victims murdered by serial killers were faceless, nameless women who worked in the sex trade. They were women who had left home a long time ago, and if they went missing, family rarely noticed, nor did they care.

“I want to get to the hospital and speak to Elena,” Melina said.

“I’ll follow,” Ramsey said.

“If we all go, she’s sure to clam up.” Melina looked at Ramsey and Jackson. “You both can be a little overwhelming.”

Ramsey and Jackson looked at each other.

“I can be charming,” Ramsey said.

“I have two kids of my own,” Jackson said.

“No,” Melina said. “I’ll talk to the girl.”

Jackson released his breath, seeming to concede to her on this. “I’ll escort the fingers to the medical examiner’s office.”

“I want to see the child,” Ramsey said. “She’s our only witness right now.”

“All right, but let me do the talking,” she said.

He attempted a smile as if to prove he could soften his image. “Done.”

“Don’t do that,” she said.

“What?”

“Don’t smile at the kid. It will terrify her. Just be quiet.”

“What’s wrong with my smile?” he asked with genuine curiosity.

“You’re the detective. You figure it out.”

CHAPTER EIGHT

Monday, August 24, 6:00 p.m.

Melina lost sight of Ramsey as each drove toward the hospital, but she was not concerned. He was a big boy and perfectly capable of finding the right address.

His presence unsettled her, which was a rare occurrence. Since her rookie days, she had dealt with her share of tough cops who expected her to prove her worth. Those days were long past—until Ramsey, who was in a different league of cop. He noticed more than the average bear, and there was a hint of ruthlessness that was keeping her on her toes.

For now, she was grateful for the time alone in the car. She needed to process the scene without enduring his scrutiny.

She arrived at the hospital and parked. As she crossed the hospital lot and strode toward the front doors, she spotted Ramsey approaching from her left flank. His long even strides ate up the distance quickly, and by the time she reached the front door, he was at her side.

“You made it,” she said.

He grinned and paused, allowing her to walk through the sliding doors first, but he was the first to reach the information desk and show his badge. She held up hers as he said, “FBI agent Jerrod Ramsey and TBI agent Melina Shepard. We’re here to see Elena Sanchez.”

The older woman with white curly hair wore a blue smock over her street clothes and sported a badge that read GINA, VOLUNTEER. Brown eyes widened as she checked her computer screen and then, squaring her shoulders, said, “Third floor. She’s on the pediatric wing.”

“Thank you,” Ramsey said.

They stepped into the car, and Melina pressed three. A tall man in a white coat entered the car and leaned past her to press four. The three stood in silence until the doors opened on the third floor.

“Remember, I do the talking,” she whispered as they stepped out.

“I’m here to not smile,” Agent Ramsey said.

“Exactly.”

At the floor station, she got the attention of a young nurse, Nora, and each showed their identification badges and made introductions.

“Any calls from family?” Melina asked Nora.

“Nothing.”

“Has anyone called the hospital about a young child brought into the emergency room?” It was not beyond the realm of possibility for the driver to worry about the child or, more likely, what she would say.

“No calls. You’re her first visitors.”

“That might change when the media gets this story,” she warned. “Just keep everyone off limits to the girl for her own safety.”

“Of course.”

Melina reached in her backpack and pulled out the stuffed dog. She straightened the crooked eye and arranged the ears so that they dangled neatly around its furry face.

Her mind tumbled back to before the Shepards had adopted her. To the faint outline of a similar stuffed furry companion. She could not say if it had been a dog, cat, or bear, but she knew it had been soft and that when she’d held it close to her nose, the smell had given her comfort.

She rolled her shoulders and head from side to side and practiced a smile before she opened the door to the private room. The overhead light was dim and the shades drawn. A television mounted on the wall broadcast an episode of SpongeBob SquarePants. The girl lay in the middle of the bed, her eyes closed. Dark hair framed her small olive-skinned face. Small lips were pursed, and her brow was wrinkled into a frown.

Melina struggled with the same anger that always threatened to get the better of her when she worked a case involving a child. It was one thing for her to have her abandonment issues. The damage had been done, and she had found a way to make it work for her. But that did not mean every kid had a coping mechanism and everything was going to be all right. She looked forward to meeting the driver of the car and locking his or her ass up.

She pulled up a chair beside the bed as Ramsey stepped back into the shadows. She took the little girl’s hand in hers and for several seconds said nothing as she simply sat.

The girl’s eyes began to roll back and forth under her closed lids, and her body began to twitch. She was dreaming, and judging by the deepening frown on her face, it was not good.

“Elena,” Melina said softly. “Elena, shhhhh.”

The girl shook her head, and a soft cry escaped her lips before her eyes popped open and she looked around the dimly lit room. Her gaze was panicked, reminding Melina of a cornered animal.

“It’s okay, honey.” She heard Ramsey shift, but hold his ground. “You’re safe, Elena. You’re in the hospital.”

The girl turned toward Melina, her eyes still as her grip tightened around Melina’s fingers. She was a stranger to the child, and in any other circumstance the child might have drawn back. But in this moment, she sensed the child was drowning, scrambling to stay afloat. Melina was her life raft.

“You’re okay,” Melina said softly.

The tiny girl was silent, panic turning her liquid-brown eyes brittle. No tears glistened, suggesting this was not the first time she had been left on her own.

“My name is Melina.” Given the girl’s probable bias against cops, she planned to leave that detail out for now.

“I want my mom,” the girl whispered.

“I’m trying to find your mom, but don’t know where to look. What’s her name?”

Elena’s mouth bunched into a frown.

“I’m not mad at your mom. I just want to find her,” she said.

Tears now welled in the girl’s eyes, and several spilled down her cheeks. “You can’t find my mom.”

“I’m pretty good at finding people.” She held up the stuffed dog. “I found this guy.”

“Petey!” Elena released Melina’s fingers and grabbed the dog, closing her eyes as she held the toy close.

“I found Petey,” Melina repeated. “Help me find your mother.”

“You can’t,” she whispered. She hugged the dog close, burying her nose in the soft fur.

“Why not?”

Silence stretched. Melina could feel the girl’s tension, as well as Ramsey’s behind her. The child sensed the agent had suspicions about her mother’s fate.

“Why can’t I find your mother?” Melina asked.

The girl didn’t open her eyes, and when she spoke, her voice was so faint it was hard to understand her. “My mom is dead.”

It was Melina’s turn to be silent for a moment as she digested the words and juxtaposed them against the image of the glass pickle jar and its ghoulish contents. “Honey, what is your mother’s name?”

“Christina.”

“And where did your mommy live?”

“California.” That tracked with the plates on the car.

“Where in California?”

“1040 Litton Lane, Imperial Beach, California. 619-555-1212.”

“That’s your home address and phone number?” She quickly scribbled down the information.

“Yes. Mama made me learn it.”

“That’s very smart of you to remember. When did your mom pass away?”

“On my birthday.”