There was a sense of quality to his age. It was probably that unfair issue where men aged gracefully and women just aged. However, as I looked at each picture of Van from a decade before, I believed there was a sadness existing in his green eyes that I didn’t see today.

Taking that magazine to the lounge chair, I turned on a lamp and began to read. According to the article, the pictures of Van with the other women had been taken over a year before publication. Prior to the article’s release date, Donovan Sherman had disappeared from the social circuit.

Each picture was captioned with Van’s name, the woman’s name, the event, and date. The names of the women came from many well-known families, all with socialite names such as Nichole, Lena, Celeste, and more.

If Van was a reclusive, eligible bachelor ten years ago, when did he marry?

I went back to my laptop and pulled up his most recent biography. There was the date he was born and his parents’ names.

Donovan Sherman was born in Austin, Texas, to Michael and Eleanor Thomas.

I reread the sentence.

Why isn’t Donovan’s last name the same as his father’s or his mother’s?

Another search on my computer told me that there were too many Michael Thomases and Eleanor Thomases in Austin, Texas, to even start to figure out which ones were his parents, if that was even where they still lived. For some reason, Skylar’s and my wedding invitations came to mind. I remembered that more than a few of our invitations went to Texas addresses.

Closing my eyes, I contemplated going online to our wedding website. The thought of pulling the site up and seeing Skylar’s and my engagement picture made the brunch Paula had prepared for me percolate in my nearly empty stomach. Another look out the window told me that night had fallen. This time of year, darkness came earlier than when the clock proclaimed it was nighttime.

The clock said only ten until six.

The one place I hadn’t looked was Van’s bedroom suite or up onto the third floor.

Beyond the windows the lights around the entrance to the house, garages, and driveway had turned on, shining their golden light. As I stepped from the library, I noticed the numerous lights now illuminated throughout the first floor. “Hello?” I called.

The only answer was the echo to my own voice.

No doubt there were timers or light sensors.

Crossing my arms over my chest, I took my time gazing out through the front windows. With the nightfall, I couldn’t see much beyond the snowy yard. However, during the day, I’d noticed how the blanket of white appeared to be covering levels, as if his yard went down level by level until it reached the bay’s shore.