No One Heard Her Scream by Jordan Dane Page B

the look, had seen it many times before as a detective delivering bad news. Now after what happened to her own sister, she knew firsthand how dread mixed with the strange sensation of relief for it to be over. A gut-wrenching contradiction. Even though the priest set his jaw and steeled himself for what she would say, his eyes couldn't hide the pain. Becca raised her chin and took a deep breath as she walked up the steps to the front door. She had to be the cop now, not the victim. Don't read too much into this, Beck. He's not your personal mirror. Stay objective. Easier said than done.
    "Do you mind if I come in?"
    For a moment, she didn't know if he would allow it. Eventually, he did.
    Sparse furnishings, but the place looked clean. A faint hint of pine cleaner played second fiddle to the pungent aroma of roasted jalapenos and bell pepper, someone making salsa. Scented candles burned near the entry. Another shrine for Isabel dominated the tiny living room. Keepsakes and photos of the missing Marquez girl were cast in the pale glow of flickering red votive candles. Isabel had been elevated to sainthood by her family. Becca understood the sentiment. In death, the imperfections of the victim were forgotten. The priest noticed her attention to the memorial. "My mother tells me the constant reminder helps her cope." His words were punctuated with a sigh. "But you don't think so."
    He shrugged. "Why are you here, Detective?" Before Becca answered, an older woman entered the room from the kitchen, wearing a blue house frock and a faded green apron, wiping her hands with a rag. Petite and rail thin, Hortense Marquez looked as if she'd been crying. Her eyes still brimmed with the sheen of tears. She wore a yellow bandanna wrapped around her head, and curly wisps of gray hair poked out from under it. Grief etched her face, making the woman appear older than her years. And despite the memorial of hope she'd set up in her living room, despair had found a home in this woman's eyes. Becca knew the look all too well.
    "This is my mother. Please excuse us." After a quiet exchange in Spanish with the priest, the woman forced a smile and nodded before she left the room. But not before she gave Becca one final look, one she'd seen from her own mother's eyes. Although Becca knew only enough Spanish to be dangerous, no words were necessary. For the things that really mattered in life, there were no language barriers.
    Once they were alone, the priest gestured for her to take a seat.
    "Was there some reason you didn't tell her I was with the SAPD?" she asked as she sat on a green floral love seat, armrests frayed on the corners.
    "Her English is not good. No sense in alarming her until I know . . . something for sure." Father Victor took a seat across from her, a wooden chair that had seen better days.
    "I'm investigating your sister's disappearance."
    Before she went on, the priest interrupted. "Investigating? It's been almost seven years. Why have the police taken an interest now?"
    Suspicion narrowed his eyes. Father Victor had set aside his religious affiliation to become brother to Isabel, the patience and generosity of his profession forgotten.
    "I know this must be difficult, but—"
    "Know? How could you know?" He lashed out, his face wracked with grief. But when he looked into Becca's eyes, he stopped himself. "I suppose you see a lot of families like this."
    "Unfortunately, that's true, but it's still not the same as going through it." Becca met his gaze. She wanted to stop, not go any further. Maybe it was his white collar. Or maybe she saw herself in him, like a mirror. "My baby sister, Danielle. She was taken . . . and killed. We never found her body."
    The priest stared at her in disbelief. They sat in silence. The quiet gave Becca a strange comfort. She looked away to give him time to recover. Or maybe she needed the time. But when she looked up, the priest's eyes glistened with tears. The sudden display of sympathy caught Becca by