Konan motioned with his hands and shrugged. “I mean there’s an Amber Wainwright in our morgue. She’s fifteen years old, and two men raped her that we know of. Someone killed her.”
“Oh my God. No, no, no, no!” Daisy screamed, “This isn’t real.” Konan cleared his throat and looked away. Daisy sobbed, her breaths caught in her throat, and she unleashed the most primal scream Konan had ever heard. Her tears soaked her face, melted the thick layers of makeup she wore, her soul exposed for all to see.
“I want to see my baby,” she cried, her voice trembling from the anguish of emotions within her. She convulsed. For a moment Konan thought she had a seizure, but it was just heartache. That cold hard feeling you get in the very bottom of your stomach, the feeling that you fell off a #3 washtub in your grandmother’s yard and landed square on a cactus. The tiny puncture wounds to your heart, and the continual sting as heartache ripped each barb from the wounded flesh.
There were no words that could dampen the pain, no salve to deaden the memory of failed opportunities to right her daughter’s course. In the anguish and turmoil only remembrance remained. Remembrance, it’s a house in Hell for those who thought they had more time.
“Please,” Daisy sobbed from her knees, “take me to my daughter.”
“Do it,” Konan whispered to Tomas. “Take her to see Amber.”
Tomas and Wiggins helped Daisy to her feet and led her from the Murder Room. They boarded the lift and descended to the parking garage. Konan stayed on his knees and faced the wall, his silent tears unseen by any but God, and he wept for the girl that no one wanted.
Freeman's Front Porch Musings 
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