Another uncomfortable sensation grew in my stomach as I wondered if the reason Jack didn’t have a truck of his own but had talked Sam into letting him borrow his was because the arrangement suited them both, or because Jack was unable to get insurance. Did he not have a credit card because of his self-imposed financial constraints, or because he hadn’t been able to provide proper identification to apply for one? If so, why? The answers I played in my head ranged from Jack being a serial killer to an international spy, or in witness protection, and everything in between. The insatiable desire to know the truth about the Jack Smith I’d fallen in love with grabbed me by the throat, the knowledge of his lies combined with the mystery of what they meant, and what we’d meant, transforming into a raging war inside me. I had to know his secrets. I needed information. Details. Something.

My pursuit of the truth began in the bedroom, where I riffled through his clothes, trying to quash the memories they represented so they didn’t distract me from my purpose. The blue shirt Jack had worn the day we’d met, the black one he’d loaned me when I’d splattered pancake mix all over mine—almost every item held some significance. I pushed them away as I emptied his closet, searching the pockets of every damn pair of shorts and pants, shaking out shirts and underwear before unfolding his balled-up socks and examining them, too.

The bedside table was next. Two books, a box of condoms, the lip balm I’d left here because he never had any, something else I’d teased him about as his mouth was always so soft. “All the better to kiss you with,” he’d whispered, and the memory of his voice made me gasp.

“Figure this out,” I urged, abandoning the bedroom, and heading for the bathroom to continue my mission. It didn’t take long to inspect the open shelves, or the medicine cabinet above the sink. When I examined the toilet, I told myself I was being stupid, but couldn’t stop the relief from coming when I didn’t find a gun, or a stack of drugs and fake passports duct-taped to the tank.

Only the living room, kitchen and hallway closet were left. I plowed through the first with an equal amount of fervor, my rage billowing when my rampage yielded nothing, not until I grabbed a chair to reach the top kitchen cupboard, where I found a dented Christmas cookie tin I’d never seen before, stowed away at the back, hidden behind a set of mugs we never used.