"Sister," Patterson said, "thank you for seeing us."

"You said you were here about Jillian Ricks?"

Stacy stepped in. "That's right. We understand she was a student here in 2010."

"For longer than that, Detectives. She attended Sacred Heart from the first grade."

"She graduated?"

"No. Her parents withdrew her in her junior year. Right before the Christmas break."

Because she was pregnant, Stacy guessed. Though if the headmistress knew that, she doubted she would tell her. She asked anyway. "Do you know why?"

"I'm sorry, you'd have to speak with her parents about that. We were sorry to lose Rachel."

"Rachel?"

"Jillian was her middle name. She preferred it."

"We'll need her parents' contact information."

"May I ask what this is about?"

"Homicide investigation," Stacy answered. "You'll have to speak to her parents about it."

10:30 a.m.

Uptown, holier-than-thou hypocrites. When their daughter had refused to give her baby up for adoption, they'd kicked her out of the house.

Stacy didn't bother to hide her dislike. "You're telling us you put your daughter and her infant out on the street?"

"We figured she'd be back in a matter of days."

"Days? Really?"

"She had nowhere to go. We let family know they were absolutely not allowed to help her. Same for her friends' families."

Stacy had trouble controlling the anger that rose up in her. She felt the same emanating from Patterson.

They hadn't even asked why they were here.

Almost as if they'd expected it.

"And how long has she been gone?"

For the first time, Stacy saw indecision cross their features. "Six weeks," he answered.

"Not days, then." Sarcasm dripped from the words. "Have you tried to find her?"

"No. We didn't raise our daughter to be a whore. She knows what she has to do to come home."

"She'll be home any day," the mother said, looking at her husband as if for confirmation.

Stacy bit back what she wanted to say. "When did she deliver?"

"The baby was a week old when she left."

"You mean, when you kicked her and her newborn out of the house and into the street."

"Our home, our rules." He swept his gaze over her. "You're not a parent, are you Detective? You'll see, a firm hand's needed. Tough love."

As if Patterson knew she was about to lose it, he stepped in. "What about the baby's father?"

"Trash."

"In your opinion," Stacy said.

"In everyone's."

"Was he still a part of your daughter's life?"

"No. We saw to that."

"How so, Mr. Ricks," Stacy asked.

"With all due respect, it's none of your business. This is a family matter."

"It's a police matter now."

The mother spoke for the first time. "What kind of trouble has she gotten herself into now?"

"She's dead, Mrs. Ricks," Stacy said, unable to hold back her contempt. "She got herself murdered."

11:15 a.m.

Ten minutes later, they were buckled into Stacy's SUV. She started it, but didn't shift out of park. "I hope they did it," Stacy muttered. "It'd make my day to see them cuffed and hauled off."

"No frickin' joke. They hardly flinched at the news." He held up the photo they'd supplied of their daughter. They hadn't even had one of the baby. "You need a license to drive but any psychopath can be a parent. No questions asked." He looked at her. "They were weird about the boyfriend. Think they killed him, too?"

Before she could respond, her cell phone sounded. "Killian," she answered.

"Detective, Ray Hollister. Autopsy's complete. You want the highlights?"

"Always. Patterson's with me. I'm putting you on speaker." Stacy clicked over and set the phone on the console. "Okay, go."

"Except for the knife wound, which killed her, she was a healthy young woman. The blade entered under the breastbone and hit both lung and heart, very neat, no torn edges, in and out."

"Type of blade?" Patterson asked.

"Stiletto-type, double-edge. Five or six inches long. Frontal attack."

Stacy stepped in. "We I.D.'ed her, spoke with her parents. They claim she gave birth seven weeks ago."

"Jibes with my findings. It's in the report."

"Any sign of drug or alcohol abuse?" Patterson asked.

"None. But Tox will give us the full story."

Stacy made a sound of impatience. "What about T.O.D.?"

"Eleven p.m. Friday. Give or take."

It was 11:00 a.m. now.

Twelve hours since the murder.

"When was the last time she breastfed?"

Hollister let out a bark of laughter. "I'm good, Detective, but not that good."

"Bullshit. An estimate."

"I'm not going to pull a number out of a hat, Detective Killian, no matter how bad you want one. I can say, however, her breasts were engorged, so it'd been a number of hours, but how many--"

"Thank you. That's what I was looking for."

Approximately sixteen hours since the baby had been fed.

Thirty-two hours remaining.

"Want the report sent over?"

"Absolutely."

Patterson looked at her, frowning. "What was that about?"

"What?"

"That sound you made at my question about drugs."

"That information's inconsequential to this case. Ricks wasn't an addict."

"How the hell do you know?"

"No need to get testy. C'mon, really, what does that have to do with this case?"

"The one we're working. A murder investigation. IF she was involved with drugs, it could've gotten her killed. It happens every frickin' day."

He was right. It did happen everyday. It could have gotten her killed.

But it was wrong. Here, it didn't work.

She told him so.

He paused. The silence stretched uncomfortably between them. "What case are you working, Stacy? I'm getting the feeling, it's not the same one I am."

NOON

The boyfriend, one Blake Cantor, was a chef's assistant at a local chain restaurant, Zea's. Good food. Rotisserie meats and corn grits to die for. Stacy's stomach rumbled loud enough to make Patterson chuckle.

On paper, the young man Ricks' parents had called "trash" seemed like a pretty decent guy. Full time job, no record, clean cut.

Paper didn't always tell the tale; she'd met some pretty amoral bastards who looked like saints on paper. People like the Rickses.

"What's up?" Cantor asked warily. "My boss said you needed to talk to me."

"Detective Killian," Stacy said, holding up her shield. "My partner, Detective Patterson."

"We need to ask you a few questions about Jillian Ricks."

Fear raced through his eyes. "I haven't seen her for months."

"You seem a little nervous, Blake. What's wrong?"

"Nothing. I'm done with her, that's all."

"Done with her? Wow, that sounds cold."

He flushed and backtracked. "Look, I liked Jillian. A lot. But I don't want any trouble."

"Sit down, Blake."