I wander over to the bookcase near the fireplace, still wearing my wool coat because it’s far too cold to remove it. Whoever lived here must’ve loved to read because there are multiple bookcases scattered throughout the room, all nearly overflowing with books. I glance at some titles on the shelves, in case we are stuck here for a while and I need something to entertain me. There’s an entire shelf containing books with the exact same title.

The Anatomy of Fear.

A little shiver goes down my spine, and I hug my coat to my chest. I pluck one of the many hardcover titles off the shelf, which has a layer of dust on it, like everything else in the house. The Anatomy of Fear by Adrienne Hale, MD, PhD. And there’s a picture of a dripping knife on the cover. Great. Exactly what I want to see right now.

I flip the book around. There are a few choice quotes from well-known authors and professionals praising the book. And in the left-hand lower corner, there’s a photograph of the author. It’s the same picture that’s hanging over the mantle.

“Ethan,” I say. “Look at this.”

He rips his eyes away from the portrait and joins me by the bookcase. He looks over my shoulder at the photograph on the back of the book. “Adrienne Hale,” he reads off the back cover. “Isn’t she that shrink who got murdered?”

He’s right. Three years ago, the disappearance of Dr. Adrienne Hale was one of the biggest stories in the news. Especially since it happened shortly after the release of her pop psychology hit, which stayed on the New York Times bestseller list for almost a year, hogging the number one spot for months. Everyone in the country read that book, including yours truly. Of course, the massive success of the book was largely because her disappearance was such a sensational story.

“She disappeared,” I correct him. “I don’t think they ever found her body.”

He tugs the hardcover out of my hands and flips through the pages. “I bet they did eventually find her. Washed up somewhere.”

“Maybe.” Adrienne Hale disappeared from the news cycle at least two years ago, and her book dropped off the charts as well. “You read it, didn’t you?”

His eyes are still on the pages in front of him as he shakes his head. “I hate that pop psychology crap.”

“No, it was really good.” I poke a finger at the open pages in his hand. “It’s all about her patients, you know? The horrible experiences they went through and how they dealt with it.”

“Yeah, not interested.” He rests the book on top of a random shelf, suddenly bored with it. Ethan isn’t much of a reader. “Her boyfriend killed her, right? I remember that part. He was some tech guy or something.”