Police and ambulance vehicles littered the front lawn. Another van, this one parked closest to the walkway that led up to her front door had the word “morgue” stenciled across it in reflective gold lettering. A small crowd had gathered in the far corner, right beneath the ancient gum tree, its bark curling from the unseasonable spring heat. A murmur sounded from the onlookers and Hannah turned in time to see the morgue workers pushing a gurney that held her son. Not that she could see him. He’d been zipped into a bright blue, plastic body bag, the smallest hump on the long steel structure that was the stretcher. An arrow of pain shot through her and forced its way out through her mouth. She cried out at the sight of Brady, so small and so dead. She’d never forget the way he’d looked when she’d found him, with his eyes bulging in his head. His tongue hung from his mouth, dry and swollen. His skin was blue and cooling. She didn’t know how long he’d been hanging there, but it was obvious it had been long enough.
