He walked down the hall and into the master bedroom, not exactly sure what he was looking for. The bed was unruly and unmade, which was also highly unusual. He sat down on the bed and touched the rumpled sheets. His hands went from the bed to the nightstand drawer. He flipped a few things over. Hair scrunchies and bookmarks. He pulled the stand away from the wall. Nothing. He lifted the mattress. Nothing again. Well, it was doubtful Marla would hide anything under the mattress, given that she wasn’t an adolescent boy. He went to the tall dresser and opened each drawer, sliding his hand to the back. Lingerie, T-shirts, jeans, and scarves. Nothing. He caught his reflection in the closet mirror and couldn’t bear to watch himself behaving this way. This idea was madness.

He opened the other closet door and reached back, deep into the shelves where Marla kept her shoes. Shoes, shoes, pair of boots. He made his way down through her sweaters and at the very bottom spied several pairs of her running sneakers. He had to get down on his knees and reach back behind them. His hand touched something soft. He got on the floor and pulled out an old running shoe. He tried to remember when she’d last worn this particular pair. His eye caught something in the toe of the shoe. He reached in and touched it. It wasn’t an it, it was a them—a set of keys. On the chain was a Mustang logo, as well as an old Ford key and a Jeep key. He had seen its twin on Lara’s key chain many times. Todd Sutton’s missing car keys.

“Fuck.” Ben sat down on the floor and threw the keys away from him as if they’d scalded him. He hadn’t really thought he’d find anything here. This whole excursion had been an exercise in proving that he was wrong about her.

Ben gathered himself up, careful not to touch anything. That he was even thinking all this about her sickened him. They’d been together for ten years—ten years. True, she could be cold and prickly at times, but she was no killer—and no way was she was the hundred-year-old daughter of a daemon. He stopped and laughed. Despite everything that he knew from France, the idea that his Marla could be Esmé was crazy. I have to be wrong. I need to prove I’m wrong.

He got up and looked out the window at their small yard, which had become a palatial garden since last October. She’d thrown herself into its creation: elaborate urns and benches, exotic perennials and shrubs. Until today, he’d never noticed bags of lime in their basement. When had he been in the basement last? October or November? He hadn’t noticed bags of anything. This was a curious detail, the lime.