“Your daughter’s in Interview Two,” he said quietly. “One responding officer believed there was probable cause based on visible scratches on Mr. Cole and statements at the scene. She has not been booked yet. We’re still in the initial hold.”
“Has anyone photographed Natalie?”
A pause.
“Not thoroughly.”
“Then that’s where you begin.”
He nodded. “Sergeant Elena Torres is on her way in. She handles domestic violence cases. We’ll document her injuries.” Then he lowered his voice. “You may be right that we’re missing something.”
“I know I’m right,” I said. “The question is whether you’re willing to find out how much.”
He held my gaze, then said, “Come with me.”
Natalie was sitting at a gray metal table under a camera dome, both hands wrapped around a paper cup she wasn’t drinking from. Her hair, usually pinned neatly, had come loose around her face. A bruise was beginning to darken along her jaw. One sleeve of her blouse was torn near the wrist. She looked up when I entered, and I saw the exact age she had been at seven when she fell off her bicycle and came home trying not to cry because she thought pain was impolite.
“Mom,” she said.
I crossed the room and put both hands around her face gently.