For the sake of thoroughness, Troy used his phone to snap photographs of several pages. He doubted he would bother sending Sullivan something as innocuous as recipes, but knew that when building a case, even trivial details could later prove significant.

The second volume was an address book, with tabs for each letter of the alphabet, and ring-binding. It was secured with a tiny gold clasp. He snapped open the clasp and opened the book. The thin, crisp pages were yellowed with age.

He opened it at random, and wound up at letter “E.”

There was one entry on the page, written in black ink in Grace’s careful script:

Viola Easley – June 14, 1947
1752 Arthur Lane
Los Angeles, CA 90287
September 5, 1987 – September 16, 1987

Troy frowned at the record. He didn’t understand the purpose of the dates. He could guess that the first date, in June, might have been a date of birth, but he didn’t know what the dates in September signified.

Nevertheless, it might prove useful to research. He snapped a pic of the page.

He flipped to another page, under the “J” tab. There were three entries.

Mary Jackson (Williams) – December 5, 1924
22543 Cumberland Avenue
Boston, MA 54319
April 20, 1963 – May 1, 1963

Charlene Johnson (Trice) – August 27, 1968
909 Williams St, Apt 3
Milwaukee, WI 45102
October 5, 2007 – October 18, 2007

Christina Devereaux – September 17, 1978
8879 Rice Ferry Road
New Orleans, LA 24501

Troy wondered why the third record didn’t have a set of dates underneath the address. Regardless, he took a photo.

He read his watch. It was twenty-five minutes after ten. His gut was tight with tension. At any second, he expected to hear Monica’s SUV pulling into the driveway.

He paged to the “W” tab.

“Damn,” he said.

Monica Worthy (Stephens) – February 7, 1975
368 Pine Glen Court
Dunwoody, GA 30338
November 1, 2014 –

Fresh sweat had formed on his brow. February 7, 1975 was Monica’s date of birth, and the address listed was where they lived. Grace had come into their lives on November 1, at Lily’s funeral.

But there was no end date—yet. He gnawed his bottom lip. What did that mean?

He quickly turned to other pages, taking photos of each. Some of the birth dates went as far back as 1883. Others were as recent as 1998. Locations spanned the United States; one was in Griffin, Georgia, a town south of Atlanta.

Every entry he found was a female name.

None of the records with more recent birth dates had a final date line assigned to them, which he had assumed meant that Grace had not yet encountered them. But that seemed like a flawed assumption, because the entry of the woman born in 1883 had “visit” dates over a twelve-day period in July 1921.

Obviously, Grace had not been meeting anyone in 1921. That was over ninety years ago. Grace was only fifty-nine-years-old, a fact the detective had already confirmed.

He pursed his lips. He was missing something.

A vehicle approached the house.

They’re back. I’ve got to get the hell out of here.