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“You should fire her.”

I open the refrigerator.

Water bottles. Eggs. A container of salsa. Half a lime wrapped in plastic. Beer.

Don leans over my shoulder. “Was the house booked yesterday?”

I close the refrigerator.

“This month is always blacked out.”

“Did you check?”

I look at him.

“It’s always blacked out.”

“That is not the same as checking.”

“No one should be here.”

Don glances toward the hallway. “Should and is have a tragic relationship.”

I move through the living room.

The front door was locked. The gate code worked. Nothing is broken, and nothing looks missing.

A towel is thrown over the patio chair outside, dark with water and sunken into the cushion like someone dropped it there and walked away. One of the lounge chairs has been moved into the shade. The sliding glass door is streaked at shoulder height, a smear from a wet hand maybe.

My pulse begins to climb.

Don sees the towel and stops making jokes.

“Oh dear,” he says.

“Yes.”

“This is not bad housekeeping.”

“No.”

“Could it be the pool guy?”

“The pool guy doesn’t eat breakfast in the kitchen and sunbathe on the patio.”

“Maybe he’s expanding his role.”

I turn to him.

He lifts both hands. “Sorry. Anxiety joke.”

I walk toward the hallway. Don’s hand catches my elbow before I get far.

“Paul.”

I look at his fingers on my sleeve.

“Maybe we don’t investigate the mystery occupant with our bodies,” he says.