Decker tapped the Play button, and the machine began to spit back prior messages. There was one from a woman whose voice was raspy and old and hurried—as if she was calling on the sly. Another from a woman named Dotty who left no phone number, and a third from Paula, who left her phone number. Decker copied it down, then depressed the digits into the keypad. Two rings, then Paula’s message machine took over. Decker hung up. He’d call back later.

He had no idea when those calls were made. Marie’s machine didn’t have a built-in clock. Yesterday, Marie had showed up at work in the late morning and worked until she disappeared. If those calls were made when Marie was at the hospital, it meant someone else had rewound Marie’s messages. Otherwise, the message dot would have been blinking.

He wrote his observation in his notes and started to take in the living room. Feminine taste from the soft pink plush carpeting to the rows of cherubic figurines that lined a curio cabinet. The walls were white tinged with pink and decorated with posters of cats doing cutie-poo things like wearing top hats, and impressionist prints. A bowl of potpourri sat atop a nineteen-inch TV. The couch was a broadcloth of pale blue and pink waves, spruced up with needlepoint throw pillows. End tables flanked the sofa, and a coffee table was in front.

The coffee table held one book—a King James Bible.

Across from the coffee table was a white rocker, an afghan neatly draped over the back. A matching ottoman rested at the chair’s feet.

Having finished dining, the cat jumped onto the ottoman, then leapt onto the chair. It proceeded to claw the afghan until the blanket fell forward, burying the kitten under a knitted patchwork. The cat wriggled out to freedom, then nested in the soft folds of the cloth. It closed its eyes.

“At least one of us is getting some sleep,” Decker muttered.

Bellson’s bookshelves were nearly empty, except for a dozen thumbed paperbacks and academic nursing and medical texts. The cabinets below were filled with odds and ends—board games, a picnic basket, Duraflame logs, a couple of cameras. Photographic equipment but no photo albums.

Decker thought everyone had photos. Where were Marie’s? He went back to his work.

Seemed like Bellson didn’t have a lot of young children as visitors. The light-colored furniture wouldn’t last a week around sticky handprints. The carpeting wasn’t made for spills and dirty shoes. Lots of breakable things sitting on open shelves as well as uncovered wall sockets. The worst offenders were the magazines on the coffee table. Toddlers just loved ripping the covers to shreds.

He moved on to the bedrooms.