This is the downside of intuition: when it feels so exactly right, other people’s skepticism is infuriating. Once again, I was reminded I hadn’t been hired to do anything and I wasn’t getting paid. I thought I was being “helpful,” which is usually a mistake. If I wanted to prove my point, I’d have to tackle the list and fill in the blanks. I had the name Susan Telford in Henderson, Nevada. I also had Janet Macy in Tucson and Phyllis Joplin, Ned’s second wife. I might start with her. Perdido was twenty-five miles south. I’d pick up a phone number for her from directory assistance as soon as I had a minute.

I parked in the short drive that ran between my bungalow and the one on my right. I let myself in and picked up the mail strewn on the floor just inside the door. The air smelled unpleasant. There was the strong overlay of scorched coffee, and I chided myself for forgetting to turn off the machine the day before. I caught a whiff of another odor suggestive of plumbing issues. Meanwhile, the message light was blinking on my answering machine. I tossed the mail on the desk, leaned over, and pressed Play.

“Hi, Kinsey. This is Taryn Sizemore. Sorry I missed you, but I was hoping to stop by your office this morning. It finally dawned on me there’s no reason in the world I shouldn’t talk to you about Ned. Apologies for the paranoia, but I’m afraid the man has that effect. If you’re tied up, let me know. Otherwise, I’ll be there as soon as I’m finished with my ten o’clock appointment. My number in case you don’t have it is . . .”

I was busy jotting down the number, so it took me a moment to register my surroundings. I set the pen aside, and when I looked up, I uttered a yelp of dismay. Every item on my desk—including papers and pens, my blotter, my calendar, and the telephone—was off by two degrees. File drawers were open half an inch. The window blinds had been raised and secured at an incline. This doesn’t sound like a big deal, but believe me, it is. As was also true of Ruthie, I like things squared up. Being tidy is essential to my peace of mind. In the chaotic world of crime and criminals, maintaining order is my way of asserting control.

I made a three-hundred-and-sixty-degree turn.

My entire office looked like a playful, slightly destructive breeze had rippled through, lifting items and setting them down askew. None of the angles matched. My copy machine was canted to the right. My two visitors’ chairs faced opposite directions, but only by three inches. Even my desk had been offset, leaving shallow indentations where the legs had formerly rested on the carpeting.

I went to the door and took in the sight of the outer office. Textbooks were tilted this way and that. My crummy travel posters had been removed from the wall and then retaped off the true. I walked down the short corridor to the bathroom, where the disarray continued. The small venetian blind hung from the box bracket on the right-hand side of the window frame. The entire roll of toilet paper had been unraveled and lay on the floor in a loose mound. The lid to the toilet tank was cockeyed, the seat was up, and a bar of hand soap floated on the surface of the water in the bowl.