The master bedroom had a small sundeck looking over the street and shading the front entrance below it. I saw no point in searching there. I piled my canvas bags in the middle of the bed so they would be out of the way, then I started with the nightstand, which had one drawer and a small cabinet with shelves below it. Nothing of interest graced the top. A landline, a small lamp, a pair of reading glasses in a green leather case. The drawer held nothing of interest except an unopened box of condoms, in preparation, I supposed, for when Bryce surfaced and came to Florida to see his family. I hoped one box would be enough.

Of course Wendy would have to come home for the condom supply to matter.

The cabinet held more tissues, a bottle of floral-scented hand cream and a few paperbacks that still looked new. Wendy was probably too exhausted by the time she got in bed to read. Did anything I’d seen so far have anything to do with her disappearance? I profoundly doubted it.

The desk could have been a treasure trove, but it wasn’t. I did find a note from Holly’s teacher asking Wendy to come for a conference, and she’d probably planned to arrange that when she returned. At least she’d been informed.

I moved on to the closet. Wendy was neater in the confines of that small space than she was anywhere else in the house. In fact she was over the top. Her clothes were sorted by color. Black, navy and gray—formal and informal—were at the back, leading toward brighter colors in the middle and pastels nearest the folding closet door. I wondered if organizing so thoroughly made it easier to face each morning.

How much of Wendy’s life in this house was a reflection of that reality? The empty cupboards? The piled papers? The pizza menus? I’d never really given much thought to how difficult each day must be with Bryce away so much. I’d shrugged off her desire to move closer to our parents as a form of mooching. But having spent less than twenty-four hours with my nieces, I understood much better.

Guilt joined hands with worry. What had stopped me from offering to help if she needed me? Wendy had always seemed so competent, and confidence is a hard barrier to breach. Still, I should have seen past it. Now I wanted her to come back for any number of reasons, including a need to tell her so.

I searched every item in the closet, and even the purses were a dead end. Wendy had thoroughly emptied each one before relegating it to a shelf. Not even a breath mint or receipt remained. Afterward I got on my hands and knees and searched under the bed. As I got up again, the dresser mirror showed a woman in her late twenties, uncontrollable dark curls springing every which way and a face scrunched in distaste. Although normally I’m not unpleasant to look at, this was not a pretty sight.