I wondered if the photographs were also misleading in how little Olivia seemed to resemble Bailey—with the exception of my favorite photograph of Olivia. In that photograph, she is sitting on a pier in a pair of jeans, a white button-down shirt. She has her hand on her cheek and her head is thrown back as she laughs. The coloring is different, but there is something in that smile that may match her kid’s—that I imagine matched Bailey in person. It pulls Olivia in as the missing piece, connecting Bailey to someone besides Owen.

I reach out and touch the screen. I want to ask her what I’m missing about her daughter, about our husband. She would most certainly know better than I do—I know that to be true—which feels like its own kind of injury.

I take a breath in, and click on the folder labeled THE SHOP. It includes fifty-five documents all devoted to code and HTML programs. If there is a code hidden within the actual codes, I certainly won’t find it. I make a note to find someone who can.

Oddly, there is a document in THE SHOP titled MOST RECENT WILL. I don’t like that it is in there, especially considering what is going on, but I relax when I open it. The will is dated shortly after our wedding. He has shown me this will before. And nothing has changed. Or almost nothing. I see a small note on the bottom of the last page of the will above Owen’s signature. Was that there before and I didn’t notice it? It names his conservator, someone I’ve never heard of. L. Paul. No address. No phone number.

L. Paul. Who is this person—and where have I seen his or her name before?

I’m making a note about L. Paul in my notebook when I hear a female voice behind me.

“Learn anything interesting?”

I turn to see an older woman standing at the edge of my backyard, a man standing next to her. She is put together in a navy pantsuit, her gray hair pulled back tight in a ponytail. The man is less put together, with heavy eyelids, a wrinkled Hawaiian shirt, and a thick beard that makes him look older than she is, even though I suspect he is closer to my age.

“What are you doing back here?” I say.

“We tried ringing the front bell,” the man says. “Are you Hannah Hall?”

“I’d like a better answer as to why you’re trespassing on my property before I tell you that,” I say.

“I’m Special Agent Jeremy O’Mackey from the Federal Bureau of Investigation, and my colleague here is Special Agent Naomi Wu,” he says.

“Call me Naomi. We were hoping we could talk with you?”

Instinctively, I close the computer. “It’s actually not a great time,” I say.