“Unconfirmed.”
Based on the answers he was getting, Reese knew better than to ask for personal information. Obviously, Detective Weatherby didn’t have much of anything to go on aside from a questionable phone tip and a preconceived determination of guilt. More than likely, JJ would uncover more before the Round Rock Police did, so he would have to wait. Until then, he was more interested in confirming when this woman was with Magnus.
“What exactly did you base your warrant on?”
The detective gave him a look that said he was irritated by the interrogation.
Oh fucking well.
“Her Lyft account shows her coming and going from this residence numerous times over the past year.”
“You just said they’ve only been involved for a few months.”
“Best guess, she was a client,” the detective mused. The detective’s use of words likeguessandthinktold Reese they had nothing.
“She has a dog?”
Weatherby’s jaw ticked. “Unconfirmed.”
“So you don’t know that she was a client.” When the detective didn’t respond, Reese said, “I take it she still lives with the husband since he reported her missing? They’re not separated?”
“Happily married,” Weatherby noted with a smirk.
“You just said the wife’s been havin’ an affair. Which is it?”
The detective’s phone rang. With relief smoothing out his features, Weatherby excused himself, leaving Reese with unanswered questions and a shit ton of doubt.
He took the opportunity to wander through the house. Although he’d been to the dog day camp numerous times, he’d never had reason to come into Magnus’s personal domain.
The house was a single-story brick ranch with a detached two-car garage. It had been updated at some point since it was built, which he would guesstimate to be sometime in the fifties based on the architecture. The front door opened directly into the living room, which looked to be in the vicinity of twelve by thirteen with hardwood floors and a fresh coat of gray paint. The room consisted of a single floor-to-ceiling window on the front of the house and two narrow windows on the other exterior wall, a dark gray microfiber couch situated between them. No frills in the space, not much color, either. Across from the couch was a wood-burning fireplace with a gray marble-tiled hearth and a thick-beamed mantel.
At the end of the living room were two doorways, one turning left and leading down a hallway, the other wider and opening into a small kitchen and eating area. The breakfast nook was on the right side of the long, narrow space, the kitchen on the left, a door leading outside directly ahead at the back of the house.
Reese moved to the left, surveyed the space. The same hardwood from the living room swept through here, too, and the L-shaped countertops looked to be gray-veined white marble, likely installed in the past few years. Appliances were all black and also new, Reese noted when he opened the refrigerator, which was tucked into a space to the left of the back door. Inside were a couple of Chinese takeout containers, a half-gallon of milk, a six-pack of Sam Adams with one missing, a small tub of butter, a jar of mayo, a sealed tub of lunch meat, a package of mild cheddar cheese slices, and what, at a quick glance, looked to be thirty-plus bottles of water. The guy drank a lot of water.
Reese closed the door, opened the freezer. Far less in there, only a box of waffles, a bag of steamable broccoli, and a stack of ice trays.
To the left of the refrigerator were the dishwasher and the sink with a single window over them. On the short end of the inverted-L counter was the range with microwave above; dark gray cabinets finished it off. The only appliance on the counter was a small toaster oven. The symbol for heat was lit red, so he opened it, saw there were two of those frozen waffles—no longer frozen—inside.
“Makin’ breakfast, Magnus?” he mumbled to himself as he continued through the doorway into the hall, then to the right.
Three doors. One on the left, one on the right, and one at the end. Two bedrooms, one bath, he guessed.
He checked out the smaller bedroom first, which appeared to be Magnus’s game room. There was a computer setup, complete with a gamer chair, desk, and some sophisticated steering wheel contraption, probably used for racing games. One large floor-to-ceiling window overlooked the front porch and the yard. Finishing it off was a tiny closet that held a couple of coats and what looked to be extra blankets.
As with what he’d seen so far, there wasn’t much clutter and no dirty dishes or stray cans or bottles.
The other bedroom was the master, and if Reese wasn’t mistaken, it had been renovated at some point. Two baths, he amended when he noticed the attached bathroom. He stuck his head in, saw that it was large, with a walk-thru shower, double sinks, and a jacuzzi tub. He ventured in, checked the doors, and found the closet. It was a decent size, holding primarily jeans and T-shirts, several pairs of boots—work, hiking, and casual—as well as flannel and denim button-downs. Looked mostly like work clothes, nothing fancy.
Back in the bedroom, Reese glanced around. Something felt off about the space, like the angle of the wall wasn’t natural. He studied it, glanced up at the ceiling. It took a moment, but he realized it had likely been expanded, along with the master bathroom, to incorporate what was originally a third bedroom. Had to take the space from somewhere, right?
A grouping of photos tucked into the sides of the dresser mirror drew Reese’s attention. He headed over, leaned in to get a better look.
He recognized Magnus instantly. A much younger version—ten, maybe eleven years old—with what Reese assumed to be his parents and a younger girl. Sister, probably.
Reese skimmed the other pictures. All of them were of the same people, just in varying poses and situations. One was of Magnus and the same older man from the other photos standing in front of a sign that read: Storme Kennels.
Family business? Had he renamed it? Or was there another?
