"Of course not. Down the hall, second door on the left." She turned back to her cooking, humming softly—a lullaby I vaguely recognized but couldn't name.
I moved through the dining room with its table already set for four—cloth napkins folded into perfect triangles, water glasses filled to identical levels, a small vase of fresh-cut flowers as a centerpiece. Matt caught my eye from the living room, where he'd been examining family photos with deliberate casualness. A subtle nod passed between us—the mutual understanding of seasoned partners who could communicate volumes with the smallest gestures.
The hallway was lined with more framed photographs—Tommy's school portraits in chronological order, Sarah receiving a community service award, the two of them at various tourist destinations. I noticed the absence of spontaneous shots—those imperfect, candid moments that most family collections include. Every image appeared staged, composed for maximum effect.
As I approached the bathroom, a partially open door on the right caught my attention. Light spilled from the gap, illuminating a slice of cream-colored carpet. I glanced back toward the kitchen—Sarah was still occupied, the sound of chopping and the radio she'd turned on providing auditory cover. Making a split-second decision, I altered my path and slipped toward the office door.
The room was small but meticulously organized—a glass-topped desk with a closed laptop, color-coded file folders in a wall-mounted organizer, and a stylish ergonomic chair pushed neatly into place. What stopped me cold was the corkboard that dominated the wall opposite the desk. It was covered with newspaper clippings, printouts, and handwritten notes—all about me from the last couple of days.
My breath caught as I moved closer.
"Finding something interesting?"
Sarah's voice behind me sent ice through my veins. I turned slowly, my face composed despite the alarm bells ringing in myhead. She stood in the doorway, wooden spoon still in hand, her expression pleasant though her eyes were sharper than before.
"I was looking for the bathroom," I said, gesturing toward the corkboard. "What is all this, Sarah?"
She laughed—a light, tinkling sound that didn't reach her eyes. "Oh, that must look strange! I’ve just been trying to keep up with what was going on." She stepped into the room, casually placing herself between me and the door. "I haven’t been able to sleep since it happened. I’ve been concerned about you and how I could help. I feel slightly guilty for this happening to you. I’m the one who invited you here, and now you’re in this total mess of a situation. It’s not fair."
Sarah smiled, her head tilting slightly to the right. "The bathroom is the next door down. Dinner is almost done."
I slipped past her, feeling her eyes tracking my movement down the hall. In the bathroom, I locked the door and leaned against it, processing what I'd discovered. Sarah had been keeping track of me and what the media wrote about me. Why? Because she felt guilty? Because she wanted to help?
Something about it didn’t feel right.
By the time I rejoined everyone for dinner, Sarah had transformed into the perfect hostess again, serving homemade pasta with a flourish. "Tommy, smaller bites please," she instructed as her son twirled spaghetti onto his fork. Matt sat across from me, his expression carefully neutral, though I could read the tension in the set of his shoulders.
"This is delicious," I commented, the food turning to ash in my mouth as I forced myself to maintain our charade. Sarah had deflected when I asked her about the nature of her relationship with Collins, so it was time to try another approach.
"You mentioned knowing Richard Collins from your bookstore. What did he usually look for?"
"Oh, yes," Sarah replied, refilling Matt's water glass without being asked. "He loved mystery novels—the more complex the better. Said they helped him think outside the box in his work."
"His work as an accountant?" Matt asked, taking a careful sip of water.
"Mmhmm." Sarah nodded, her attention momentarily diverted to Tommy's messy eating. "He mentioned auditing was like detective work—finding inconsistencies in the narrative."
I seized the opening to keep her talking. "Did he ever mention what he was working on specifically? Any cases that troubled him?"
Sarah's eyes flicked to mine, then away—a tell so subtle most would miss it. "He kept the details confidential, of course. Professional ethics and all that." She turned toward Matt. "Would you like more pasta, Matt? You've barely touched your plate."
"Actually," Matt said, folding his napkin beside his plate, "would you mind if I washed my hands again? Got a bit of sauce on them."
"Of course." Sarah smiled. "Bathroom's?—"
"Down the hall, second door on the left," Matt finished for her. "I remember."
As he left, I engaged Sarah in conversation about her bookstore, asking detailed questions that required her full attention. "How did you get into selling books? Have you always loved literature?"
Sarah launched into what sounded like a rehearsed narrative about her lifelong passion for reading, her voice animated as she described opening Bookmark Haven five years ago. I nodded at appropriate intervals, my peripheral vision tracking the hallway where Matt had disappeared.
Instead of heading to the bathroom, Matt slipped silently into the living room. I kept Sarah talking, watching as she checked her phone again beneath the table—the third time since we'd sat down to eat. Her story about the bookstore's grand opening droned on as I divided my attention between her words and the mental clock tracking Matt's absence.
In the living room, Matt moved directly to the side table he'd noted earlier—the only piece of furniture with a locked drawer. Using the small set of picks we both carried, he worked the simple lock open in seconds. Inside, nestled in a felt-lined compartment, lay five identical burner phones. He removed one, checked its call history, and found multiple outgoing calls to the same number, asrecently as that morning. He photographed the number with his own burner phone, then carefully replaced everything exactly as he'd found it.
As he closed the drawer, a shadow fell across the room. "Finding everything okay?"
Matt looked up to see Sarah standing in the doorway, holding a pitcher of iced tea. Her smile remained in place, but her eyes had hardened to chips of blue ice.
