Chapter 6

Hummel held up the picture so that all of them could see it. Drawn in crayon, its center showed a thick black ring with a larger dark brown ring around it. In the very center of both rings was what appeared to be a flower. At the top of a straight green stem was what looked like a red cup. A tulip, maybe? A rose? Above and below the rings, darker, wavy brown lines ran the length of the page. Crossing one section of those lines was a straight gray one that started at the rings and ended near the edge of the page, its tail forming a small rectangle. Next to that were several tiny circles drawn in a lighter brown. Josie was pretty sure the crayon color was called Desert Sand. She could identify most of the crayon colors just by sight after spending so much time watching Harris—her best friend Misty's son—use them. All in all, the drawing was messy, like the kinds of pictures Harris used to draw when he was in kindergarten. The thought made Josie's heart flutter wildly, like a trapped hummingbird. There was a child connected to this woman. Where were they, and more importantly, were they safe?

"What is that?" asked Anya.

Hummel rotated it. "I don't know."

"Maybe an eye?" Josie suggested.

"Because of the way the black circle is inside the brown circle?" Hummel said. "Maybe. The gray could be a teardrop, I guess, although it's kind of square. Then you've got the flower in the center. Maybe the person is looking at the flower?"

Anya pointed to the brown wavy lines. "Those are horizontal. Wouldn't the lines be shorter and vertical if they were meant to be eyelashes? Also, what are those small circles?"

Hummel said, "You can analyze its meaning later. Let me get this into an evidence bag and log it in."

"Turn it over," Josie said.

"Right. Hang on." Gingerly, so it didn't fall apart in his hands, he flipped the page. Along one edge was the same flower and below that, large, awkward letters, scrawled in the crayon color Josie recognized as Screamin' Green.

H E L P

The hummingbird in Josie's chest beat so hard against her rib cage, it was painful. She tried to say something, anything, but no words came.

Anya did it for her. "Oh God."

"Fuck," said Hummel.

Josie took a deep breath and stowed the secret panic she felt at the prospect of a child being in the hands of whoever had stabbed Mira Summers and her passenger. There was a job to be done, and that child's life might depend on how well Josie and her team performed it. Steadying her nerves, she took out her phone and snapped a photo of each side of the paper. Hummel carried it away. Josie and Anya exchanged a look. Anya let out a shaky breath and turned back toward the passenger, searching on and around her body. "No identification."

"Of course not," Josie mumbled. The child's drawing was already taking up permanent residence in her mind. Did the woman have a child? The knife in her abdomen notwithstanding, she didn't look healthy enough to take care of herself, let alone anyone else. Was her child being held somewhere, or had they already perished? Or were they dealing with some other, unimaginable scenario?

HELP

"Here," Anya said, pointing at something stuck to the woman's shirt, near her waist. "Give me my camera."

Josie retrieved it from its case and handed it over.

Anya snapped several more photos of what looked like a thick clump of short white hair. "Is that from an animal?" Josie asked.

"I don't know." Anya probed the back of the woman's head. "There's more on her collar here." Careful to avoid the knife handle, she knelt to get a look at the woman's legs and feet. "Here, too. It's very short. A cat, maybe? Call Hummel back over. It might be of use to you later."

Josie went to find him. Her mind formed a preliminary picture of this woman's home life. Child. Cat. She'd clearly been in poor health for a long time. It could have been from a prolonged illness but from the way her hair had been shorn, Josie's gut told her that her condition wasn't from illness at all and that if it was a cat that had left the clumps of fur on her, it didn't belong to the woman but to the person who'd killed her—and who might this very minute have her child. A child who needed help.