“Smooth as glass. So is your new reconstruction a little boy or girl?”
“A little girl. Nine. Found in the vineyard country in California.”
“And what did you name her?”
“Jenny.” She looked back at the skull on her worktable. “I called her Jenny.”
“Pretty name. I’ve always liked it.”
“So have I. I guess. It just sort of fits her.”
Jane chuckled. “How can you tell? It’s a skull, for heaven’s sake.”
“I can tell.” She added, “She definitely wasn’t a Samantha.”
“Samantha? Where did that come from?”
“You’d have had to have been here.”
“And I’d just as soon not.” Jane paused. “I don’t know how you do it. So sad … Never being sure what you’re doing is going to help those children’s identities to be discovered.”
“I’ve had a good percentage over the years.”
“I know, and I admire you more than I can say. I call myself an artist, but it’s you who are the true artist, Eve. You create life from death.”
“Only the semblance. But sometimes that semblance can cause the bad guys to be caught and revenge exacted.” Her lips tightened as she looked at the reconstruction. “This little girl is so fragile-appearing. It makes you wonder how anyone could bear to hurt her. Yet that bastard crushed her head and—” She broke off. “For some reason, I couldn’t do the measuring until I’d done a temporary cosmetic fix on that wound. I was going to wait but it … bothered me.”
“Because you have a gentle heart. Why else would you have taken a street kid like me into your home?”
“Because that street kid was remarkable, and I knew that she’d light up our lives.” She added, “And you’re a very good artist, Jane. You have great vision. And it’s not of skulls or death.” She chuckled. “Far more socially acceptable. You must be close to your apartment. I’ll let you go. Thanks for calling.”
“My pleasure,” Jane said. “Truly. Good luck with your Jenny. I hope you find a way to bring her home to those who loved her.”
“I think I will.” She added dryly, “She seems to have a young sheriff in California rooting for her. He says she wants to be found.”
“A psychic?”
“No, he just has a feeling. Good night, Jane.”
“It’s morning here. Have a good day.” She hung up.
Night here. Morning where Jane was living. It only pointed out how far apart they were.
Don’t think about it. They were together in their hearts.
Time to go to bed. She wanted to get up with Joe and have a cup of coffee with him before he left to go to the precinct.
She washed her hands and dried them on the towel she kept at her worktable. She turned off the work light. “We made a decent start, Jenny. It will go faster later.”
No answer naturally.
The fragile bones of the skull shone in the glow of the overhead light. Eve moved toward the hall leading to their bedroom, then impulsively stopped and looked back at the reconstruction.
She looked … lonely.
Imagination.
It was a skull, for Pete’s sake. Eve had worked on hundreds of reconstructions, and she had never had that feeling with one before. Was she transferring her own sadness about Jane’s departure to the death of this little girl? It was possible, but she wasn’t going to look for psychological excuses for the strange feeling she’d had since she’d seen Jenny’s skull.
Jenny.
I … think … my name is Jenny.
The phrasing was very odd.
Forget it.
She turned and started down the hall.
“Good night, Jenny,” she said gently.
No answer from the darkness.
Of course there wasn’t.
No answers.
No loneliness.
Not for the dead whose life had been snatched away.
That was for the people left behind.
She was suddenly filled with anger and rebellion and a desire to hold close to everything that life meant.
She opened the bedroom door. “Joe?”