(Picture info: photo by Leo Reynolds, under a Creative Commons license)
This was my response:
He still remembers the dazed look of the woman on the newscast, as if she'd been hit by a bus and forgotten to fall over. The husband played the strong guy, red-faced, shoulders tensed to punch out what wasn't there. But when they found the culprit, oh yeah, watch out then! This would be the guy lunging at the one already in handcuffs, screaming obscenities at a man not yet convicted, and then turning away to the cameras as if he'd proved his manhood. But it hadn't played that way. No one caught. No one found. The family left with a gap that must have healed over by now, but probably still probed in guilty secrecy like the hole of a missing tooth. Do you remember...? Don't say it. It's gone. It's dead. The smell of it no different now from damp soil and rotting leaves and vain regrets, and if any part of it tries to surface, it's easily suppressed. He stepped deliberately on the doll head, forcing it back into the soft ground, and kicked more dirt and leaves over it, and over its hair, and over the matching hair that wasn't from the doll.