He carefully lifted the hair brush. Using a set of tweezers he had purchased expressly for this task, he extracted several crisp hairs from between the brush bristles. He dropped them into his plastic sample bag, sealed it shut, and tucked it into his back pocket. Then he returned the hair brush to the dresser, in the exact spot from which he had lifted it.

He exhaled. He had his DNA sample. Next, he needed leads for Nick Sullivan to research.

He began to pull open the dresser drawers. All six were empty. She was keeping her clothes and other possessions elsewhere, probably in her suitcase.

Where had she stored her luggage?

He stepped around the bed. He didn’t see her suitcase. He got on his knees and looked underneath the bed. Found nothing.

That left the closet.

He moved to the closet door; a full-length mirror hung on it, reflecting his anxious face. It was a simple door with a knob. He noted with relief that Grace had not installed a new lockset.

He pulled the door open.

The closet rod was packed with clothes. She had outfits in every color of the rainbow. On the hook on their interior of the door hung a set of black lace lingerie that would have shamed his mother.

He knelt to the carpet. There on the floor, pushed to the rear wall of the closet, behind a row of shoes, stood the suitcase.

He parted the shoe collection and dragged out the luggage.

A miniature padlock dangled from the handle, but it was disengaged. He laid the bag flat on the carpet. Hands trembling, he unzipped it.

The main compartment held a bundle of dry, spicy-smelling herbs, and a box of rolling papers. Ingredients for those strange cigarettes Grace liked to smoke.

He muttered under his breath. So was this it? Was there nothing else?

He ran his fingers across the suitcase’s interior panels. He felt a bulge in one of the pockets, which was secured with a brass button.

What’s this?

He unsnapped the button.

Two black, slender, leather-bound books lay nestled inside, bound together by a thick rubber band. He extracted them.

The leather casing of each volume was weathered by the passage of time. His late maternal grandmother had used to keep a leather-bound address book in which she recorded the names and addresses of every relative and family friend imaginable, going back for decades. Both of them brought to mind his grandma’s old address log.

He laid both volumes flat inside the suitcase, and opened them. One of them appeared to be a recipe book, full of handwritten instructions for preparing cakes, pies, teas, candies, and other foods. Grace had elegant handwriting that reminded Troy, uncomfortably, of Monica’s own penmanship.