She climbed out the window and dropped into the water. The ground was mud under her feet. The bark of the old oak tree was furrowed with seams and knots, and she examined the larger gaps with her fingers to see if anything was shoved inside. When that proved fruitless, she picked up the empty propane tank, but it was no more than rusted debris. There was almost nothing else in the yard, except a telescoping ladder lying against the foundation. She dragged it out of the water and examined the underside of each step, but Justin hadn’t hidden anything for her there.

It was another dead end.

The photograph was just a photograph, not a message.

Peach returned to the house and shut the window, but it caught on the frame and stayed open half an inch. She was soaked, and she knew she smelled like a wet dog. When she checked her phone again, she saw that Annalie was late. It had been almost ninety minutes since their phone call. When she returned to the living room, she peered through the blinds, hoping to see Annalie’s Corolla arrive outside, but she saw only her own T-Bird parked out front. She dialed her friend’s number on the phone again, but there was no answer. She didn’t leave another message.

She sat on the torn cushions of the sofa. Drips of water splattered on the carpet. The broken antiques of Justin’s life were in ruins around her. A baroque gold clock with cherubs. A child’s rocking horse with chipped paint. A tapered, rose-colored bottle made of delicate glass. A laughing Buddha with a well-rubbed stomach. Nothing matched anything else. Justin had never cared about a theme for his collection; he simply bought pieces that spoke to him.

His books were scattered across the floor. Biographies of classical composers like Brahms and Haydn. Eclectic science books covering everything from astronomy to microbiology. Novels and essays from the eighteenth century. Joseph Andrews. Rasselas. Gulliver’s Travels. There were titles in French that she didn’t understand. It was all so … Justin.

One book caught her eye. She’d missed it before, because it was mostly covered under a record album of Bruno Walter conducting Beethoven’s Fidelio. Sitting on the sofa, she spotted the green cloth cover of a small book of poetry. It was the same book – the same edition – of poetry by William Blake that she’d purchased for him as a birthday present. She frowned to think he’d already owned a copy, but he had never said a word about that when she gave it to him.

Peach got up from the sofa and picked up the volume. Without even thinking about it, she flipped to the page for ‘The Tyger.’