NOOK’S EYES WERE POOLED IN SHADOW. “WHY ARE YOU DOING this to us?”

“May I come in?”

“What is this?” She raised the manila folder containing pictures of Ruben’s dead babies.

“Can we talk about it?”

Vertical lines puckered the skin between her brows. Her gaze drifted past me to the cat pan, then returned to my face. “Did you take these?”

“They’re official crime scene photos.”

“That wasn’t my question.”

“I’m not a police officer.”

Her chin cocked up.

“I didn’t take the pictures. But I was there when they were taken.”

I expected to be sent packing. Instead, she stepped back.

I entered a dim little room with an ancient washer/dryer combo and plastic bins lining one wall. The air smelled of chimney smoke, detergent, and household cleansers.

Snook closed and locked the door and led me into a sun-bright kitchen. Placing the folder on a counter, she offered tea. I accepted.

As Snook filled a kettle from the tap and draped bags into mugs, I looked around.

The kitchen was rimmed by knotty pine cabinets fitted with wrought-iron hardware. Affixed to each door were pictures of animals carefully cut from calendars or magazines. A hawk, an owl, a caribou, a rhino. A World Wildlife Fund calendar hung from a thumbtack on one wall. Canadian Wildlife Federation, Alberta Wilderness Association, Sierra Club, and Federation of Alberta Naturalists stickers covered the refrigerator.

A fishbowl sat on a small gate-leg table below a gingham-curtained window. An enormous tricolor cat dozed on a lattice-back chair beside it.

“I see you’re interested in conservation,” I said.

“Someone’s gotta be.”

“Yes.”

“Between farming, forestry, mining, and good old-fashioned greed, over half the species in this province are in trouble. Twenty are endangered, two are already gone.”

“I’m sorry if I damaged your koi pond.”

“That’s for frogs. They breed in the spring. I try to help them out.”

“Beautiful cat,” I said. He wasn’t. “What’s his name?”

“Murray.”

The house was silent. I wondered if Mr. Snook was in another room, straining to hear our conversation.

“I apologize for disturbing you and your husband.”

“Don’t have a husband.”

The kettle whistled.

“You said your husband gave you a key at the Gold Range yesterday.”

“I lied.”

“Why?”

“My doings are none of your business.”

Okey-dokey.

Snook poured boiling water into the mugs. “Six years ago Josiah went out to buy beer and never came back.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I’m not.”

Snook handed me my tea, and we took chairs at a dinette set generations younger than everything else in the room. Laminated wooden seats and tabletop, white arms and legs.

As Snook added sugar to her mug, I studied her face, trying to figure which way to go. She beat me to the punch.

“Is my sister really dead?”

“I’m so sorry.”

“Someone shot her?”

“Yes.”

“Who?”

“I don’t know.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know.”

“Why are you showing that to me?” Tipping her head toward the counter.

I got up and brought the folder to the table. “These are police and coroner’s photos.”

I flipped opened the cover. A five-by-seven glossy of the bathroom-vanity baby lay exposed. The print caught light from the window as I rotated it to face Snook.

“For the past three years, your sister lived near Montreal in a town called Saint-Hyacinthe. Six days ago she went to a hospital emergency room. Based on her symptoms, the attending physician thought she might have given birth. Since Annaliese denied having a baby or being pregnant, he reported his suspicion to the police. The next morning this newborn was found under the sink in Annaliese’s bathroom.”

Snook’s eyes stayed on her tea.

“Look at it, Nellie.”

Snook set her spoon on the table and did as I asked. She took in the sightless eyes, the maggot-filled mouth, the tiny bloated belly. Her shoulders slumped, but she made no comment.

I placed a second five-by-seven on top of the first. “This baby was found in a window seat.”

A third. “This one was in an attic.”

A fourth. “This one was hidden behind a wall in Annaliese’s apartment in Edmonton.”

I allowed Snook time to absorb the horrific reality I was dispensing. Finally, she looked at me, her face impassive.

“She doesn’t know any better.” Flat. “Didn’t.”

“I understand that now.” Gently.

Her eyes settled on a spot halfway to her spoon. Halfway to another place or time, I suspected.

Behind Snook, Murray stretched and mewed softly.

“Do you have any idea who the father or fathers might be?”

“We tried to look out for her. My brother and me. Alice was slow.” She gave a soft, mirthless snort. “Annaliese. She liked trying on new names. The doctors had a name for what was wrong with her. I couldn’t pronounce it. But she was legally adult. And she hated being told what to do.”

“Her death is not your fault,” I said.

“Never is.”

I thought it an odd comment but said nothing.

“Do the police have any leads?”

“They’re questioning one suspect, looking for another. Do you know anything that might help?”

Snook wagged her head slowly.

“Why did Annaliese leave Yellowknife?”

“She was seventeen. There was nothing for her here.”

“Was Annaliese into drugs?”

The dark eyes jumped up to mine, burning with resentment. “That’s gotta be it, right? The kid was Indian, so naturally, she was a drunk or a junkie. It’s what they said about our brother. It’s what they’ll say about me. Things never change.”

“Are you referring to Daryl Beck?”

“You are thorough. I’ll give you that.”

“You’re saying Beck wasn’t a user?”

“There was a time Daryl hit the booze and drugs pretty hard. He got off to a rough start. His mother left when he was twelve. Our father didn’t give a rat’s ass.”

“Farley McLeod.”

“Only thing Farley gave his kids was a quick shot of sperm and a worthless piece of dirt in the middle of nowhere. His way of dealing with a guilty conscience, I guess.”

“You’re saying your brother had quit drinking and doing drugs?”

“Daryl was dry the last nine months of his life. He was working on his GED.” Again the mirthless snort. “Wanted to make something of himself.”

This didn’t track. “Horace Tyne said Daryl was a doper.”

Snook’s brow puckered deeper, but she said nothing.

“I spoke to Tyne briefly after you mentioned his name,” I added.

She shook her head at the irony. “So I’m the one set you on Annaliese’s trail.”

“Actually, I’ve been on Annaliese’s trail since before I met you. You were simply a lead. Tyne said Annaliese lived in his house after Farley died.”

“I wasn’t in Yellowknife then.”

“Tyne’s quite a bit older than your sister.”

“He is.”

“You have any thoughts on that?”

“Besides my brother and me, Horace Tyne’s the only person in this town gives a hoot about other creatures. He’s a fine man and a hard worker. When he can find work.”

“Did Annaliese like him?”

“No. But she could be like that.”

“Like what?”

Snook hitched one shoulder. “Stubborn. The doctors said her thinking never made it past the fourth grade.”

The cat sat up, shot a leg, and began grooming its belly. Which had very little fur.

“Do you know why Annaliese came back to Yellowknife?”

“I think something scared her.”

“What?”

“I don’t know. She was so tired, mostly she slept. I didn’t press, figured we’d have plenty of time to talk.” Snook lifted her mug. Blew on it, though the tea was now cold. “Pressing didn’t work with my sister.”

“Do you know a woman named Susan Forex? Or did Annaliese ever mention her?”

“No.”

“Phoenix Miller?”

“No.”

“We believe Annaliese went from Edmonton to Montreal with a man named Smith. Signed a lease for an apartment with him.”

“Know about two dozen of those.”

Good point.

“What about Ralph Trees? Goes by Rocky.”

“No.”

“Ronnie Scarborough?”

“Why are you asking about these people?”

“They’re known associates of your sister.” I said the next as gently as possible. “Ronnie Scarborough was her pimp.”

Snook set her mug on the table. Held it tight.

“Scarborough is a prime suspect in Annaliese’s murder,” I added.

“You said you’re not a cop. But you talk like one.”

“I’m a forensic anthropologist.”

“What’s that mean?”

“I examine remains that are … damaged.”

A new pucker suggested she didn’t quite get it.

“I help coroners and medical examiners identify the deceased who are no longer recognizable. And I help figure out what happened to them.”

She appeared to give that some thought. “The coroner gonna do an autopsy on my sister?”

I leaned in and placed a hand on hers. “Whoever shot Annaliese took her body away.”

Her jaw went slack.

“We’ll find your sister, Nellie. And the bastards who killed her.”

Murray switched legs. His collar bell tinkled softly.

“What happened to Tank?” Snook asked.

“I don’t know.”

“You said you was there.”

“He ran into the woods.”

Snook’s chin dropped to her chest.

I stared at the top of her head, feeling like a voyeur, wondering if I could be so stoic in the face of such grief.

My gaze drifted to Murray, then to the mismatched fish swimming in the bowl at his side. One was off-white, the other gold. Sunlight sparked the sand and rocks lining the bottom of their world.

A long, silent moment passed.

Then Snook said something that kicked my view of Annaliese’s murder on its ass.