knotted, Amanda closed her eyes, forcing herself to detach. To not get sucked into the mind-ravaging warfare this case would create. Her mother had done this work on a regular basis, felt this pull of longing and heartbreak. Amanda supposed a person eventually got used to it. After all, the cause was noble, if not emotionally eviscerating.
She opened her eyes to someone whose family had yet to know her fate. Amanda thought back to those first brutal days without her mom, to the shock and anger and bone-shattering ache that came with sudden and tragic loss.
To this day, she didn’t fully understand—probably never would—how her mom had thought suicide was the only option. Obviously, the emotional place her mother had reached was too dark, too painful to find her way free. Her work as a forensic artist probably hadn’t helped, but Amanda would never truly know why her mom had done what she did.
At least Amanda had a place to visit. A place to sit and talk and grieve.
A proper grave site.
She ran her fingertips over the edge of the paper she’d sketched on. This woman’s family had no answers. Maybe they assumed she was dead. Maybe not. Maybe down deep they held on to hope that she’d walk back into their lives.
And that tore into Amanda like a rusty chain saw. At least she knew her mother was gone.
“I’ll bring you home,” she said.
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