“Without some sign of foul play, it’s going to be hard to get their attention. I’m not family, and I don’t even live here. I guess I just wanted to see your home for myself. Check for any signs of a disturbance—maybe something Evan didn’t notice during the open house.”

Robin was on her feet. For a second, Lindsay thought perhaps the woman had spotted something in the corner of the living room. Instead she walked to the kitchen, picked up a cell phone from the island, and placed a call.

“Are you home, Carter? I need a favor.”

7
Wednesday, June 16, 12:25 p.m.

Carter turned out to be a cop named Carter Decker who lived in the guest house at the property next door to the Stansfields’. Lindsay could tell from the way he cut through the backyard and headed straight for his neighbors’ back door that he was used to being called over.

Lindsay guessed he was about her age. Slim, with a long face, spiky brown hair, and three or so days of stubble. He wore a pair of faded jeans and a David Bowie T-shirt. Off duty.

Robin greeted him with a friendly hug.

“I thought you and Stan were off training for the PGA,” he said.

“Let me introduce you to my new friend, Lindsay Kelly.”

Carter looked at her and nodded once with a dry smile. She guessed that Carter was also used to being introduced by the Stansfields to women around his age.

“Were you around over the weekend?” Robin asked.

“In and out.”

“Did you see our realtor, by any chance?” Robin asked. “Evan Hunter—a little bald, about mid-fifties? A little . . . fat?” She whispered the last word as if it were contagious.

“No,” Carter whispered back. “Did he eat part of your house or something?”

Lindsay was aware of the passing minutes. “He has an assistant who staged the house. According to him, she definitely arrived to do the job on Saturday night, but then never came back on Sunday as expected, and no one has seen her since. She’s been missing now for four days.” She pulled up a photograph on her phone. It was an “ussie,” as Hope called a selfie with another person, from their trip to East Hampton in April. They were each holding up an ice cream cone from Scoop du Jour.

“I’m so sorry,” Carter asked. “Are you family?”

“No. Just a friend.” Lindsay felt a tug at the back of her throat.

“I didn’t want to believe it had anything to do with our house,” Robin said, “but then I remembered the chill I felt when Stan and I first came home. I was just certain something was wrong. The house felt . . . off. Broken somehow. Stan accused me of acting like a woo-woo, but when Lindsay showed up today looking for her friend, I had to wonder.”