Byrne turned his attention back to Dr. Parkhurst. “Anything else you can tell us?”

“Well, her father is pretty sick,” Parkhurst said. “Lung cancer, I believe.”

“Is he living at home?”

“Yes, I believe so.”

“And her mother?”

“She’s deceased,” Parkhurst said.

Sister Veronique handed Byrne the printout listing Tessa Wells’s home address.

“Do you know who her friends were?” Byrne asked.

Brian Parkhurst again appeared to think carefully about this before answering.“Not... offhand,” Parkhurst said. “Let me ask around.” The slight delay in Brian Parkhurst’s reply was not lost on Jessica— and if he was as good as she knew he was, it was not lost on Kevin Byrne, either.

“We’ll probably be back later today.” Byrne handed Parkhurst a card. “But if you think of anything in the meantime, please give us a call.” “I sure will,” Parkhurst said.

“Thanks for your time,” Byrne said to both of them.

When they reached the parking lot, Jessica asked: “A little too much cologne for daytime, don’t you think?” Brian Parkhurst had been wearing Polo Blue. A lot of it.

“Just a bit,” Byrne replied. “Now why would a man over thirty need to smell that good around teenaged girls?”

“Good question,” Jessica said.

The Wells house was a shabby trinity on Twentieth Street, near Parrish, a straight-through row house on the sort of typical North Philadelphia street where the working-class residents try to differentiate their homes from their neighbors’ by the little details—the window boxes, the carved lintels, the decorative numbers, the pastel awnings. The Wells house had the look of a house maintained out of necessity, rather than any sense of vanity or pride of place.

Frank Wells was in his late fifties, a lumbering, raw-boned man with thinning gray hair that fell into his light blue eyes. He wore a patched flannel shirt and sun-faded khakis, along with a pair of hunter-green corduroy house slippers. His hands were dotted with liver spots, and he had the gaunt, spectral bearing of a man who had recently lost a lot of weight. His glasses had thick, black plastic frames, the type worn by math teachers in the 1960s. He also wore a nasal tube that led to a small oxygen tank on a stand next to his chair. Frank Wells, they would learn, had late-stage emphysema.

When Byrne had showed him the photo of his daughter, Wells had not reacted. Or rather, he had reacted by not visibly reacting. A crucial moment in all homicide investigations is when key players—spouses, friends, family, co-workers—are informed of the death. Reactions to the news are important. Few people are good enough actors to conceal their true feelings effectively upon receiving such tragic news.

Frank Wells took the news like a man who had survived a lifetime of tragedy with stony aplomb. He had not cried, or cursed, or railed against the horror of it all. He closed his eyes for a few moments, handed the photo back, and said: “Yes, that’s my daughter.”

They met in the small, tidy living room. A worn, oval braided rug sat in the center. Early American furniture lined the walls. An ancient color TV console hummed a fuzzy game show, volume low.

“When did you last see Tessa?” Byrne asked.

“Friday morning.” Wells removed the oxygen tube from his nose and let the hose drape over the armrest of the recliner in which he sat.

“What time did she leave?”

“Just before seven.”

“Did you speak to her at all during the day?”

“No.”

“What time did she usually get home?”

“Three thirty or so,” Wells said. “Sometimes later when she had band practice. She played the violin.”

“And she did not come home or call?” Byrne asked.

“No.”

“Did Tessa have any brothers or sisters?”

“Yes,” Wells said. “One brother, Jason. He’s much older. He lives in Waynesburg.”

“Did you call any of Tessa’s friends?” Byrne asked.

Wells took a slow, clearly painful breath. “No.”

“Did you call the police?”

“Yes. I called the police around eleven on Friday night.”

Jessica made a note to check on the missing-person report.

“How did Tessa get to school?” Byrne asked. “Did she take the bus?”

“Mostly,” Wells said. “She had her own car. We got her the Ford Focus for her birthday. It helped with her errands. But she insisted on paying for her own gas, so she usually took the bus three or four days a week.”

“Is it a diocese bus or did she take SEPTA?”

“A school bus.”

“Where is the pickup?”

“Over on Nineteenth and Poplar. A few other girls take the bus from there, too.”

“Do you know what time the bus passes there?”

“Five after seven,” Wells said with a sad smile. “I know that time well. It was a struggle every morning.”

“Is Tessa’s car here?” Byrne asked.

“Yes,” Wells said. “It’s out front.”

Both Byrne and Jessica made notes.

“Did she own a rosary, sir?”

Wells thought for a few seconds. “Yes. She got one from her aunt and uncle for her first communion.” Wells reached over, taking a small, framed photo from the end table, handing it to Jessica. It was a picture of the eight-year-old Tessa clasping a crystal bead rosary in her steepled hands. It was not the rosary she held in death.

Jessica made a note of this as the game show welcomed a new contestant.

“My wife, Annie, died six years ago,” Wells said, out of the blue.

Silence.

“I’m sorry,” Byrne said.

Jessica looked at Frank Wells. She saw her own father in those years after her mother had died, smaller in every way except his capacity for sorrow. She glanced at the dining room and envisioned the wordless dinners, heard the scrape of smooth-edged silverware on chipped melamine. Tessa had probably prepared the same sorts of meals for her father that Jessica had: meat loaf with jar gravy, spaghetti on Friday, roast chicken on Sunday. Tessa had almost certainly done the ironing on Saturdays, growing taller each year, eventually standing on phone books instead of milk crates in order to reach the ironing board. Tessa, as had Jessica, had surely learned the wisdom of turning her father’s work pants inside out to iron the pockets flat.

Now, suddenly, Frank Wells lived alone. Instead of home-cooked leftovers, the refrigerator would be colonized by the half can of soup, the half container of chow mein, the half-eaten deli sandwich. Now Frank Wells would buy the individual serving cans of vegetables. Milk by the pint.