I thumb through the remaining photos. All photos from Sophia’s childhood. A happy childhood, judging from her smiles and sparkling eyes. My bet is these are photos she inherited from her mother. Sophia’s generation doesn’t print out photos, but I bet Cassandra, as a new mom, did.

The last photograph is of Cassandra and Jack. They still look young. Jack’s dark hair is lower on his forehead, and Cassandra’s is pulled back, and they are holding champagne glasses. Cassandra wears a sparkly strapless number, and Jack is in a tuxedo. The background is blurry. They look happy, but then again, they are posing for the camera. That’s the trouble with photographs. The truth a photograph presents is one-dimensional. And we humans are multi-faceted.

Footfalls announce the arrival of someone. It’s late. My ass tingles from being pressed against the hard marble floor. I move to get up, rolling forward onto my knees and hands. Two large black shoes come into view. My gaze travels upward. Light blue eyes stare down at me. Ryan’s suntanned hands spread across his hips, and his head slightly tilts. Based on his posture, I’d say he’s unsure what I’m doing, and he’s ready to pass judgment.

“Been going through folders and journals.” I scramble up off the ground. “What time is it?” I ask the question as I check my wrist. Jeez, I’ve been at it for hours.

“Find anything?”

“Nothing to help us.”

A sense of defeat suffocates me. Absolutely nothing is out of order. If she ran away, I would expect to find something. A sad drawing. Dark sketches. Hints in her journal. But I read all her journal entries. They are essentially a recording of the weather. It’s as if someone told her she had to journal, and she wanted to be obedient, but didn’t have the time or a desire to keep a journal going, so she kept pages and pages of entries along the lines of, “Chilly this evening. Clear day. Tomorrow there is a chance of rain.” Years of weather entries with the occasional, “Tomorrow Christmas vacation begins. Can’t wait.” She didn’t journal or record anything on the day Cassandra died or for the month after. Then her weather mentions resumed.

“What about you? Anything?” What has Ryan been doing? Jack returned and asked, so I know he wasn’t with Jack.

“Nothing so far. My team is still going through her electronics and social media. And security footage.”

Security footage. A twinge of hope flickers. “We should be able to see her leave.”

“If she went out the front door or the side door. He doesn’t have a camera on the back deck or over any of the sliding glass back doors.” His expression gives away exactly what he thinks about that. And any hope I have extinguishes. If she left on her own, she’d probably go out the back door. “Do you know if she surfed?”

“She did. Cassandra posted photos of her holding a surfboard. Years ago. I don’t know if she still surfs.”