Never Let You Go(98)

I walk back to my book, which is still open on the couch where I was sitting. I pick it up, put it down again. Listen for the sound of Sophie parking the Cherokee, her boots coming down the stairs, think how she’ll burst through the door with flushed cheeks and apologies, but there’s only silence. If she doesn’t come home soon, we may have to borrow a neighbor’s car.

I get up and hunt for cleaning supplies under the kitchen sink, wash every surface, including the floors, the cupboard doors, and the inside of the fridge. Why is she taking so long? If something happened to her, would anybody know where to find us? I head into the master bedroom. When I reach up to dust the top of the dresser, I accidentally knock into Katie’s photo and the frame hits the floor with a smash. I quickly crouch and check the damage.

The wood is split and glass fragments cover the floor like slivers of ice. I feel terrible and hope the frame didn’t hold any sentimental value for Marcus. Thank God the picture doesn’t seem to be harmed. When I remove the back piece and take the photo out, I realize it’s on photo paper—I can see the brand name. Marcus must have printed it from his computer.

I flip the photo over and look at Katie’s face. She was so beautiful. Everything in the photo is perfect, the wind in her hair, her makeup, the woven blanket spread perfectly straight on the sand, which I now realize now looks fine-grained, and lighter-colored than the sand on the beach I can see from the front window. The vegetation in the photo isn’t like what we have on the West Coast either. They must have been on vacation somewhere, which would explain the glass of wine in her hand. But Marcus told me his daughter never drank. It could just be water, but now that I’m looking closer, something about the photo doesn’t seem natural. It seems staged. They probably had a photographer take the shot. Come to think of it, most of the photos I’ve seen of Katie in Marcus’s house all look like they have been taken by a photographer. There aren’t any candid shots of her—and none of them together. He must have packed those away.

After I sweep up the glass and dump it into the recycling so Angus doesn’t cut his paws, I walk upstairs to clean Sophie’s room. I stop outside Katie’s door. When’s the last time anyone dusted in there? Marcus hasn’t said her room is off-limits, and I’m curious about her. The daughter of the man I love. I want to know her in some way. I’m sure he wouldn’t mind. I try the door, but it’s locked. He probably just didn’t want any renters using her room. Downstairs, I find a few keys hanging on the rack and try them in the door. One fits.

I walk in, sniffing the stale air. It doesn’t seem like a young woman’s bedroom and I wonder when she stayed here last, if it’s been redecorated. It’s more like a master bedroom, with a painting of a sunrise on a snow-covered lake hanging over the wrought-iron bed, and a luxurious-looking silver faux-fur duvet cover. It’s much bigger than the bedroom downstairs.

I walk over to the window to let in some fresh air. The window is stiff, clearly hasn’t been opened for years, and I have to struggle to slide it up. When I turn back around, I notice a wooden wardrobe at the side of the room. I pull it open. There’s woman’s clothing inside. I flip through a few shirts, a cashmere sweater, and a pair of black dress pants. A girl in her early twenties wouldn’t wear clothes like this. They must have belonged to Kathryn. I notice a white silk kimono, which makes me cringe when I think about her wearing it for Marcus. I close the door.

I step back and look around again, taking in every detail. There are no photos on the nightstands—two nightstands, with lamps on each side. Could this have actually been the bedroom Marcus shared with his wife? That doesn’t make sense. He told me he bought a new mattress and bedding for the room downstairs so I wouldn’t feel uncomfortable about anything.

To the right is another door. I push it open and discover a bathroom. I walk in slowly. I’m definitely snooping now but unable to turn around. I pull open one of the drawers. Woman’s makeup, odds and ends of samples, things she left behind. I can’t stop my fingers from pulling out more drawers, taking inventory. Q-tips, cotton balls, a dried-out perfume bottle, travel-sized shampoo, and a bar of scented soap still in Christmas paper. I turn it over, read the tag.

Love from Marcus.

Why didn’t he clean out this room? I don’t understand. Is he still in love with Kathryn? I grab at the counter, feeling woozy. I have to talk to him. I have to find out what this all means. I blink at my reflected image in the mirror. I look pale. I have to get out of here.

I’m passing the left side of the bed when I notice the bright yellow and red cover of a book on the bottom of the nightstand. I tilt my head, read the title.

Nursing Leadership and Management in Canada.

I drop to my knees and pick up the book, riffle through some pages. Marcus said his ex-wife was an accountant—and Katie was going to university to be an accountant. Maybe Kathryn had been thinking about a career change. The book flips open to the title page and I see the label, neatly filled out in bright blue ink: This book belongs to Elizabeth Kathryn Sanders.





CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE


It can’t be right. It can’t be the same woman Andrew killed. How is that even possible? I spin around and walk over to the small bookshelf under the window. I pull books out, one by one, slowly at first, then faster and faster. Mystery novels, romance novels. So many romance novels. They all have a label on the inside page. I read her name over and over again.