David wondered if the truth was that Mathers had broken into the house and someone—Patrick Corley, who had somehow faked his death, or a twin who really did exist—had given him a beating during his intrusion, not a day later in his trailer. Humiliated, Mathers might have invented a story to tell the gullible Kendra, embellishing it with the supernatural. His claim to being chemical-free and “native organic” in his use of only locally grown marijuana was probably another lie. Most likely, he sampled a smorgasbord of drugs and drew on past experiences with hallucinogens to concoct the otherworldly events he claimed had occurred in this residence.

As David stood in the foyer, at the foot of the stairs, he became aware of the deep silence that pooled in the house. Through the sidelights that flanked the front door, he saw trees thrashed by the wind, but he couldn’t hear even a whisper of that tumult.

On the second floor were a well-equipped home gym and three spacious bedrooms, each with an en suite bath and walk-in closet. All three bedrooms were being used, as Mathers had reported.

David first explored a closet full of men’s clothing and then the bathroom cabinets. He found nothing extraordinary. In the associated bedroom, there was nothing on the nightstand other than lamps, and nothing whatsoever in the drawers.

In the first woman’s bedroom, he discovered a gallery of photographs, thirty-two framed pictures, in every one of which he appeared.

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The collection was arranged on both nightstands and across the top of the dresser. A variety of sizes. Each in a unique silver or gold-plated or white-enameled frame. A lot of them were publicity photographs from the back of his book jackets or had been used to accompany newspaper and magazine interviews. They could have been downloaded from his website. He only now realized that he had never smiled in a publicity shot, that without calculation, he had always looked solemn, intense—even haunted.

In addition to the many professional portraits, there were ten snapshots, six of him alone, in which he was smiling at the camera. He recognized some of the locations: a bench overlooking the ocean at Inspiration Point, a few blocks from his house; another bench in that same park along Ocean Boulevard, where he was backdropped by the breakwater at the Newport Harbor entrance; sitting at a patio table at a cozy neighborhood restaurant.

In all these photos, he was in his early twenties. They were from his personal collection, taken by Emily, with her camera.

In the remaining four snapshots, she was with him. They were from the same period, before she disappeared. He couldn’t remember who had taken them, probably friends from those days.

How had they ended up here? Had Maddison stolen them? If so, when? Not just the previous night, because she was still in Orange County, and these pictures were here, framed with such care.