Khanh asked. She hauled the duffel bag across the passenger seat and into her lap. It was too big, but she propped it on her thighs and wrapped her arms around it as if it were a child. Her left hand cupped her other elbow, just above the stump. I said, “You heard her. They’re looking for your daughter. They have more resources than we have.” She glared at me through narrowed eyes. “You give up.” “Nobody’s giving up. I’m just saying, this is a homicide investigation. Leave it to the professionals.” “These professional,” she said, “how hard you think they look?” As hard as they can, I wanted to say, but she was right. Nashville detectives were good, but what did they have? A dead girl they couldn’t identify and a missing foreigner they couldn’t prove was missing. My father’s photograph linked them, but how many links might be in that chain was impossible to tell. “This sigh-ko-pat,” Khanh said. “Maybe hurting her right now.” She gave me a pleading look.
