The sound of his voice unnerved him. Was he frightened? Desperate? He let the door fall shut behind him, not latching. Something about letting it latch felt too permanent. Like he was making a decision he couldn’t run from. If I don’t close the door entirely, maybe I didn’t actually come in. The side room led to a kitchen open to a dining room open to a sprawling living area. It was like the houses on the renovation shows his mom watched. Tables didn’t have mail or sunglasses or keys lying on them; there were no sweaters on the backs of chairs. No signs of active life. Vases and books and framed photographs were set purposely, symmetrically, on surfaces. He said Claudia’s name again as he walked slowly toward the staircase, which creaked as he climbed it. The landing on the second floor had a leather chair and bookshelves, a telescope beside the window. There was so much space. Down the long hallway, the doors to the bedrooms were open and he peeked into each. Why not? The first had a canopy bed and an old-fashioned porcelain washbasin in the bureau. A silver comb-and-brush set. Framed watercolors of seashells hung over pale yellow-and-white floral wallpaper. Trevor wondered how long it had been since someone slept there. The second bedroom was similarly impersonal: a four-poster bed; black-and-white beach photos framed above the headboard; blue-and-gray striped wallpaper; a blanket folded at the foot of the bed; a book about knots on the little desk at the window.