I shut down the computer and walked over to the bookshelves. The books there formed an eclectic collection, and I could tell they were well used and not just for show. Many of the bindings were cracked, and a few books held little slips of paper sticking out of the top, marking some unknown place. I felt a twinge of sadness as I thought about that. The man who had read these books, who had found some passages worthy of marking, was now dead and gone. Bookmarks or not, he wouldn’t be back to take another look.

On a coffee table next to a wingback chair, I saw the most important book of all, and I paused to pick it up and flip through it. It was Wendell’s Bible, more dog-eared and page-worn than any of the other books in the room. I loved seeing a Bible that looked like this, for it was obvious that its owner had dedicated himself to studying it and delving into its truths. There were verses highlighted in neon yellow, notes scribbled in the margins, question marks next to confusing passages. I felt comfort just looking through it, but also a sadness that this man hadn’t been able to pass along the richness of his Christian faith to his own daughter, Judith. Finally, I put the Bible back where I had found it and moved on.

The far end of the room held a large locked glass case; inside were three shelves covered in black velvet. On the shelves were neatly arranged but very old pieces of clothing. It wasn’t until I had finished looking at all of them that I saw the list, typed neatly and resting on the top right corner. It was an identification key, describing each piece. As I read it I realized that this was a collection of antique clothing, with items like “Tall-crowned man’s felt hat with curled brim, circa 1770,” and “Double-breasted frock coat with lined pocket and bound edges, circa 1855.” I smiled, thinking that collecting antique clothing was a clever hobby for a man who had made his fortune in the clothing industry. I wondered what some of the pieces were worth. Judging by the lock on the side of the case and the security wiring that ran discreetly around the perimeter of the glass, I decided that this must be a fairly valuable collection.

I was just scanning the room for signs of a safe when I heard sounds coming through the wall. I listened to the muffled rise and fall of angry voices from next door, and though I couldn’t make out any of the words, I realized that Derek was no longer alone in the den.

Silently, I went to the door, turned off the light in the study, and let myself out. I hesitated in the foyer, looking toward the door of the den. It was too exposed, too out in the open, to risk standing there with my ear pressed against it. Instead, I headed out of the front door and around the outside of the building, pacing off the distance until I was just about even with the den.