With a deep breath, Marisa left the office and headed to her closed bedroom door. She could still picture the double bed, the white furniture her father had bought for her thirteenth birthday, the pink walls and white lacy curtains. She could imagine the easel, the pads of paper and charcoals and watercolors and markers she'd used to create every kind of artwork, the pictures she'd tacked all over the room. She'd been such a girly-girl, and her father had spoiled her long after he'd moved out. She remembered the scent of the cheap perfume she'd gotten from a friend for her fifteenth birthday. She'd thought it was the sweetest smelling stuff in the world. She could imagine the thin layer of powder and blush and eyeshadow covering the top of her makeup table. This room had been hers, and she was afraid to find out what her sister had done with it. After a deep breath for courage, she stepped inside.

A workout room. A high-end elliptical machine and a treadmill both faced a flat-screen TV. The walls were white. The curtains black. The crappy artwork as dark as her sister's heart. Hoping to find some trace of herself, Marisa opened the closet. Workout clothes and a cache of DVDs. She slammed the door and headed back downstairs.

Nate stood at the door, looking outside. He'd been nervous about coming here, and she didn't blame him. If the bad guys—whoever they were—were looking for them, they'd certainly have eyes on this house. Marisa was ready to face them, face her sister and tell her what she thought of her. But nobody came.

He turned when she hit the landing. "You find anything?"

"Nope."

His head tilted to the side. "You okay?"

"I always thought..." She shook her head. "Did you find anything?"

"Nothing really to see. Some photos on the bookshelves in the living room, more in the kitchen, but no guys. We're sure you sister was engaged to a man, right?"

"Not a woman, if that's what you mean."

He shrugged. "You never know."

She told him about her discoveries upstairs, and he nodded. "Definitely a man, then." He walked to the photographs on the bookshelves in the living room. "She has a lot of pictures."

"Yeah. She always liked to take pictures of herself with everybody she ever met. I think it makes her feel important or something. Like if she knows all these different people, it must mean she matters."

Nate nodded slowly. "Okay, but where's the guy?"

"I know, it's weird. If they're that close, I can't imagine it never occurred to her to get at least a snapshot with him."

"Maybe he refused?"

"Maybe he imagined this very scenario," Marisa said. "What does that tell us about him?"

"If he thought we might start to suspect Leslie, it tells us he didn't care that much about her getting caught. That he was trying to save his own ass."