The living room had a couch, a small television, and a bookshelf crammed with crack-spined paperbacks but was largely taken up by a drafting table packed with markers, pens, pencils, rolls of multicolored tape, paints, and a number of art supplies Greta didn’t recognize. A shelf of identical black leather spines sat above the desk. There had to be at least twenty.

Greta couldn’t resist taking one down and peeking into it, making a silent promise to Truman that if they were diaries, she would not read them. But no, it was a calendar of sorts, each page a work of meticulous art. It had begun as a blank book and Truman had drawn in different calendars, dates, days, and other lists.

His handwriting was perfect—all capitals like an architect with no variation in size. It was neatly color-coded and decorated, and there was a complicated tracking system for multiple habits that she couldn’t quite follow. The entire volume was beautiful and functional, and she decided that this must be how Truman was too. She placed the book back on the shelf reverently.

The bedroom was spotless, with clothes folded and hung neatly, another small bookcase that housed mostly fantasy and mystery novels, and sage-green bedding that made Greta feel calm.

The kitchen was at the back of the house, and it too was organized meticulously, pots and pans hung over a butcher block island and the spice rack alphabetized.

Finally, a small bathroom and shower, with towels the same green as the bedding, and a tiny sunroom that led out onto a long and skinny backyard. There was a lemon tree at the far end of the yard and a brazier in the middle, a chair set on either side of it.

Greta breathed in the subtle scents of lemon oil and barbecue smoke that were coming over the fence from the neighbor’s cookout. Her stomach growled.

Back inside, she changed quickly out of her winter clothes and threw on a black ribbed A-shirt with her jeans. She splashed cold water on her face, brushed her teeth, and ran a hand through her flattened hair. She finished with a swipe of black eyeliner that winged out at the edges of her eyes and nodded at herself in the mirror.

Before she had a chance to let the enormity of what she’d done catch up with her, she clipped on Horse’s harness, slid her phone, credit card, and keys in her back pocket, and went to explore the neighborhood.

Truman had told her that he and Horse had regular routes they took, but she hadn’t been prepared for the dog to practically walk her. She was content to follow him, though, since clearly he knew where he was going.