We head into the large walk-in closet Marcus and Valencia share. All her stuff is on the right; all his on the left. Marcus’s side also has a chest-height dresser with a watch box and small dish of cuff links, keys, change, and miscellaneous other items he probably tosses in after coming home from work.
Valencia’s side has shoeboxes up on the top shelf. I take them down to look inside, but they’re all her expensive shoes she probably only wears on special occasions.
“Oh-kay, Valencia,” Miles says, taking out a pair of black leather heels with red bottoms. “Louboutin. Fancy.” Then he scrunches up his face and puts the bottom of the heels against the bottom of his own shoes. “Not my size. Shame.”
I snort at the image of Miles walking around in those shoes. “You would look ridiculous.”
He points at me with the shoe. “But you’re picturing it.”
I huff in annoyance but my cheeks still burn. While he puts the shoes back, I turn to Marcus’s side of the closet to hide my blushing from him.
Marcus has a shoebox on his top shelf, too, but it’s a blue Cole Haan box. I reach up for it and it feels heavy, but the weight is sittingdifferently than a pair of shoes would. When I open it, my stomach drops.
“Holy shit.”
Inside is a black handgun.
My hands start to shake as my pulse quickens. Even though this gun has a lock on the trigger, I hold the box like it’s a bomb. There’s too much potential energy there; it’s like the gunwantsto go off, and it doesn’t care what it’s pointing at.
Miles appears behind me and whistles. “Do you think they bought it before or after Nate disappeared?”
I tilt the box toward him. “You thinking murder weapon?”
But Miles shakes his head. “Too loud. Someone would have reported a gunshot. Trust me, every Fourth of July the LISTSERV is rife with ‘gunshots or fireworks’ emails. It’s like, you all live in the suburbs, not downtown Baltimore, cool your tits, you know?”
Again I laugh. “But they do own a gun. That’s something in the potential-murder column, right?”
“No.Myparents have a shotgun in their closet and they’re liberal hippies. If I had to guess, they bought itafterNate’s disappearance. Everyone around here was freaking out after that. Alarm signs went up in yards, the LISTSERV started. Maybe that’s why so many of them are worried about gunshots on a national holiday.”
I place the lid on the box and put it back up where I found it, then we leave the room.
“What’s upstairs?” Miles points to the stairs at the end of the hall, which go to the third floor.
“Valencia says it’s a guest room, Marcus’s office, and some storage.”
“Office, eh?” Miles heads for the stairs and I follow.
The steps to the third floor are narrower than the open first-floor stairs, and they’re carpeted with dingy, high-pile beige carpet.
The third floor has a small cedar closet, bathroom, and guest room—I have no problem checking the dresser drawers in the guest room, and they’re empty anyway. We continue down the hall and there’s another door to my left and one straight ahead. I open the one on the left first. It’s Marcus’s office.
Unlike the rest of the rooms on this floor, it looks like it’s been renovated. There’s a leather chair facing a desk and the walls on both sides of the room have been changed to bookshelves. Each shelf is filled with expensive-looking law books with dates on the spine; they go all the way back to 1994.
Marcus’s desk looks expensive, too. The wood is dark and shiny, like it’s been treated with some kind of wax. There’s a computer monitor that’s hooked up to a dock that Marcus can connect his laptop to. The chair is leather and tufted, and behind the desk are two windows looking out to the backyard.
I go around the desk and start pulling open drawers. In the top right there’s only pens, pencils, Post-its, paper clips, highlighters, and little sticky tabs in a variety of colors. Miles pulls on the drawers on the left side of the desk, but they’re locked.
“Hmm. If you were a key, where would you be?” he asks.
“Probably with all the other keys. Which means he’s got it with him at work.”
“You didn’t happen to learn how to pick locks in your time living on the streets, did you?”
I tsk. “You know what, I skipped Lockpicking for the Homeless 101. I took How Not to Starve to Death, like a dummy.”
But Miles’s eyes light up like he realized something. “Wait, I have an idea.” He runs out of the room, and I call after him, asking where he’s going, but he doesn’t answer. His footsteps go down the stairs to the second floor, but then I lose them.
I turn my attention back to the file drawer on the right side of the desk, which is also unlocked. But it looks like it’s all house stuff. There’s copies of the deed, some tax documents, and property insurance. There’s also a folder on the boathouse, but when I flick through, it looks like invoices for the construction dating back a little over a year, but nothing interesting. I put it back and see the final folder is labeled “NATE LI-P/O.”
