The house was small but tidy, with a cookie-cutter interior layout that would have been some suburban-tract developer’s idea of an average middle-income home. A combined living room and dinette, a kitchen behind it. Just before the kitchen was a hall running to the right and another to the left. Each probably led to a single bedroom. There would be a full bath in one, a second bathroom off the master bedroom. The sofa, chairs and tables looked ordinary and inexpensive. The sort of furniture that almost faded into the walls.

Musil turned to Clara. “When did you first check on the house?”

She had the slightly distant expression people got when flipping back mental calendar pages. “My guess would be the tenth or eleventh.”

“Of February?”

“Yes. It would have been a Sunday. When my husband’s off work.”

Musil was thinking that roughly matched the timeline she’d given him over the phone. As he recalled, her missing person’s report was filed on the thirteenth. “Is this how it looked that day, Clara? Everything in place?”

“Yes,” she said. “Well, the kitchen was a mess. That bothered me. And still does. It isn’t Steve.”

“What do you mean?”

“I found a box of Kellogg’s on the counter that was all torn up. Cornflakes everywhere. Not to mention squirrel poop. I think one might’ve gotten in through the chimney, worked its way down and gone after the cereal.”

Musil looked at her. “That can happen when a home is vacant for a while.”

“Maybe,” she said. “If they got into the cupboards. But it surprised me that Steve left the box out. And left things to go bad in the fridge. Cold cuts, Swiss cheese, eggs. Some oranges and vegetables. There was a half-empty bottle of soda. Apple cider too. Also, food in the freezer. Pizza, TV dinners. Though I suppose they could last a while.”

“Is all that really unlike him? Single men aren’t always known for their neatness.”

“My cousin doesn’t fit the stereotype,” she said. “He lost his mom when he was young. His father—my uncle Bob—was a delivery truck driver. He usually came home late. Steve was responsible for their meals, keeping the apartment clean, laundry...basically the household chores. He wouldn’t leave food rotting in the fridge.”

“Did you mention this to the police?”

“Yes. They were here before I tossed everything out. So they saw for themselves.”

“What did they say?”

“Pretty much what you did, Agent. That he’s a single guy. Like they’re all the same.”

“My apology. I meant no offense.”