“I’m going to survey the perimeter. I want to note all the cameras and entry points. When I access the security footage and send it to my team, I want to give them priorities. I’ll meet you back in her bedroom?”

“Yes.” Her eyebrows draw inward. “Touch nothing that might be evidence. Do you have gloves?”

“Dr. Rolfe.” This woman.

“Call me Alex.”

“Fine. Alex…”

I don’t know how to finish with a professional conclusion. I am not inexperienced. She is the one who is inexperienced and acting like she’s on an episode of Sherlock Holmes, presumably pretending to be her father. The woman is Jack Sullivan’s to deal with. I exit the room, intent on my mission.

CHAPTER 5

22 Hours Missing

Alex

A floor-to-ceiling window with a wide-open view of ocean and crisp cerulean sky stops me in the doorway. Thick dark drapes frame the window and butt up against the corners, seamlessly blending into the wall. A thick platinum duvet and matching bespoke custom velvet pillows befitting royalty perch atop an ornate, painted, silver queen-size bed. A gorgeous crystal lamp sits atop a mirrored side table with a small bouquet of pale pink peonies. Thick white carpet covers the floor. The walls shimmer in barely there silver wallpaper. The view of ocean as far as the eye can see is breathtaking. The furniture belongs in a high-end design magazine. The effect stuns. But for a teen?

This must be the guest room.

I step down the hall to the next ten-foot open door. Like the other bedroom, thick drapes border an expansive window with an equally stunning view. Only this room doesn’t have a floor-length mirror. Instead of modern, the bed frame with its detailed swirls and curved wood and off-white speckled paint treatment strikes me as French country, similar to the kitchen. Remembering what Wayne said about the rooms they didn’t live in being the prior owners’ designs, I return to the first room.

Neither of these rooms, gorgeous as they are, feels lived in. Both could function as five-star hotel rooms. The one wall of the Pacific Ocean definitely draws the eye. But there’s nothing personal. How would a teenager live in a place like this? Had Sophia been miserable? Should I have been more involved after Cassandra’s death? Had it been wrong to take Jack at his word and believe he’d step up?

To my right, there is a closed ten-foot painted white door with a crystal knob. I assume it leads to the bathroom. I slip on rubber gloves and turn the knob. In a room so clean, with vacuum marks lining the plush carpet, the gloves may not be necessary. But I don’t know what I’m walking into, and my dad drilled into me at a young age the prudence of gloves when entering a potential crime scene.

The door opens into a narrow room. A built-in desk and shelves occupy one wall from floor to ceiling. Above the desk hangs a bulletin board.