by Candace Hartsuyker Randy Laybourne You tell anyone who asks that your daughter is missing, even though she’s dead. You didn’t kill her, but you might as well have. While you were at work busy poring over images of dead girls — bruised faces, broken cheekbones and chipped teeth — your daughter slipped outside, lulled by the jangly music of the ice cream truck. You imagine your daughter setting a two-dollar bill and four quarters on the counter, warmed by the pockets of her