The computer was tricky. They definitely wanted it, but definitely needed the husband’s permission, as he had a right to privacy. Something to negotiate, assuming they found some ammunition to negotiate with.

D.D. turned to the tiny, narrow staircase ascending from the back side of the kitchen.

“Evidence techs already up there?” she asked.

“Yep.”

“Where’d they park the van?”

“Five blocks over, by a pub. I’m feeling coy.”

“I like it. Have they processed the stairs?”

“First thing I had them do,” Miller assured her. Then added: “Look, Sergeant, we’ve been here since six A.M. At one point, I had ten officers swarming the house, checking basements, bedrooms, closets, and shrubbery. Only thing we have to show for it is one broken lamp and one missing quilt in the master bedroom. So I sent the evidence techs upstairs to do what they gotta do, and the rest of the guys out into the broader universe to either bring me back Sandra Jones or some evidence of whatever the hell happened to her. We know the basics. They’re just not getting us anywhere.”

D.D. sighed again, grabbed the handrail, and headed up the chocolate-painted stairs.

Upstairs was as cozy as the downstairs. D.D. had to fight the urge to duck, as a pair of old light fixtures brushed the top of her hair. The hallway boasted hardwood floors, colored the same dark chocolate as the stairs. Over the years, dust had become trapped in the tight corners of the floorboards, with a couple tumbleweeds of fine hair and dander drifting across her footsteps. Pet, D.D. guessed, though no one had mentioned one yet.

She paused long enough to look back the way she came, a parade of footsteps mixing and mingling in an indistinct blur against the dusty floor. Good thing the floor had already been processed, she thought. Then frowned, as another thought struck her and made her immediately, acutely concerned.

She almost opened her mouth to say something, then at the last minute thought better of it. Better to wait. Get all the ducks in a row. Quickly.

They passed a cramped bathroom that had been decorated in the same fifties motif as the kitchen. Across from it was a modest bedroom with a single-sized bed covered in a pink comforter, tucked under the heavily slanted eaves of the room. The ceiling and eaves had been painted a bright blue, and dotted with various clouds, birds, and butterflies. Definitely a little girl’s room, and just cute enough that D.D. felt a pang for little Clarissa Jane Jones, who had gone to bed nestled inside such a pretty sanctuary, only to wake up to a nightmarish parade of dark-suited officials traipsing through her home.

D.D. didn’t linger in the bedroom, but continued down the hall, to the master bedroom.