“It looks like, but we don't call it yet. Domestic's downstairs, rooms off the kitchen. Got it in bed, throat slit. Owners in there. Same pattern. Two kids, girl and boy, in the other rooms on this level.”

“Kids? Jesus.”

“First on scene indicated this was the boy.” Eve moved to the next door, called for the lights.

“Records ID twelve-year-old Coyle Swisher.” There were framed sports posters on his walls. Baseball taking the lead. Some of his blood had spewed onto the torso of the Yankees current hot left fielder.

Though there was the debris of an adolescent on the floor, on the desk and dresser, she saw no sign Coyle had had any more warning than his parents.

Peabody pressed her lips together, cleared her throat. “Quick, efficient,” she said in flat tones.

“No forced entry. No alarms tripped. Either the Swishers neglected to set them-and I wouldn't bet on that-or somebody had their codes or a good jammer. Girl should be down here.”

“Okay.” Peabody squared her shoulders. “It's harder when it's kids.”

“It's supposed to be.” Eve stepped to the next room, called for lights, and studied the fluffy pink and white bed, the little girl with her blonde hair matted with blood. “Nine-year-old Nixie Swisher, according to the records.”

“Practically a baby.”

“Yeah.” Eve scanned the room, and her head cocked. “What do you see, Peabody?”

“Some poor kid who'll never get the chance to grow up.”

“Two pair of shoes over there.”

“Kids, especially upper income, swim in shoes.”

“Two of those backpack deals kids haul their stuff in. You seal up yet?”

“No, I was just-”

“I have.” Eve walked into the crime scene, reached down with a sealed hand, and picked up the shoes. “Different sizes. Go get the first on scene.”

With the shoes still in her hand, Eve turned back to the bed, to the child, as Peabody hurried out. Then she set them aside, took an Identipad out of her field kit.