There's a part of him that doubts he can, mostly because he doesn't really have a good picture of her. But there are pieces. Maybe Clary can make something from the pieces.

"Light hair. Wavy. I think I have my father's hair." A pause. "She always wore soft things, bright colors." There's a moment where some of the pieces connect as he reaches for them, and in some ways it's the most discordant thing he's remembered so far to this quaint little town with well-manicured lawns and cute little shops. But he's sure of it. And some part of him thinks he should have problems saying it out loud but he's surprised at his own matter-of-factness when it comes out. No, inside his head, there's nothing shameful or awkward. It's just... a profession someone might have.

"I think because she was a prostitute."