After I sweep up the glass and dump it into the recycling so Angus doesn’t cut his paws, I walk upstairs to clean Sophie’s room. I stop outside Katie’s door. When’s the last time anyone dusted in there? Marcus hasn’t said her room is off-limits, and I’m curious about her. The daughter of the man I love. I want to know her in some way. I’m sure he wouldn’t mind. I try the door, but it’s locked. He probably just didn’t want any renters using her room. Downstairs, I find a few keys hanging on the rack and try them in the door. One fits.
I walk in, sniffing the stale air. It doesn’t seem like a young woman’s bedroom and I wonder when she stayed here last, if it’s been redecorated. It’s more like a master bedroom, with a painting of a sunrise on a snow-covered lake hanging over the wrought-iron bed, and a luxurious-looking silver faux-fur duvet cover. It’s much bigger than the bedroom downstairs.
I walk over to the window to let in some fresh air. The window is stiff, clearly hasn’t been opened for years, and I have to struggle to slide it up. When I turn back around, I notice a wooden wardrobe at the side of the room. I pull it open. There’s woman’s clothing inside. I flip through a few shirts, a cashmere sweater, and a pair of black dress pants. A girl in her early twenties wouldn’t wear clothes like this. They must have belonged to Kathryn. I notice a white silk kimono, which makes me cringe when I think about her wearing it for Marcus. I close the door.
I step back and look around again, taking in every detail. There are no photos on the nightstands—two nightstands, with lamps on each side. Could this have actually been the bedroom Marcus shared with his wife? That doesn’t make sense. He told me he bought a new mattress and bedding for the room downstairs so I wouldn’t feel uncomfortable about anything.
To the right is another door. I push it open and discover a bathroom. I walk in slowly. I’m definitely snooping now but unable to turn around. I pull open one of the drawers. Woman’s makeup, odds and ends of samples, things she left behind. I can’t stop my fingers from pulling out more drawers, taking inventory. Q-tips, cotton balls, a dried-out perfume bottle, travel-sized shampoo, and a bar of scented soap still in Christmas paper. I turn it over, read the tag.
Love from Marcus.
Why didn’t he clean out this room? I don’t understand. Is he still in love with Kathryn? I grab at the counter, feeling woozy. I have to talk to him. I have to find out what this all means. I blink at my reflected image in the mirror. I look pale. I have to get out of here.
I’m passing the left side of the bed when I notice the bright yellow and red cover of a book on the bottom of the nightstand. I tilt my head, read the title.
Nursing Leadership and Management in Canada.
I drop to my knees and pick up the book, riffle through some pages. Marcus said his ex-wife was an accountant—and Katie was going to university to be an accountant. Maybe Kathryn had been thinking about a career change. The book flips open to the title page and I see the label, neatly filled out in bright blue ink: This book belongs to Elizabeth Kathryn Sanders.
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
It can’t be right. It can’t be the same woman Andrew killed. How is that even possible? I spin around and walk over to the small bookshelf under the window. I pull books out, one by one, slowly at first, then faster and faster. Mystery novels, romance novels. So many romance novels. They all have a label on the inside page. I read her name over and over again.
Elizabeth Kathryn Sanders. Elizabeth Kathryn Sanders. Elizabeth Kathryn Sanders.
I shove the books back onto the shelf, trying to make sure they are all lined up again, lock the door, and run down the stairs. Before I do anything else, I check out the front window. Marcus’s boat is near the shoreline, his back toward the house. He’s still fishing.
In our room, I rummage through his suitcase, run my hands through his coat pockets, peer under the bed, and dig into the nightstand drawer. I don’t know what I’m searching for, but something deep inside is spurring me on. Look, just keep looking. My hands are moving fast, lifting, feeling. The floorboards are cold on my feet. I’ve let the fire go out, but I’m hot, sweaty. Angus is following me, nudging me with his nose, his tail wagging. He thinks this is a game.
I yank open the medicine cabinet, rifle through bottles of mouthwash, disposable razors, bottles of heartburn medicine, Tylenol, Advil, cold remedies. No prescription bottles.
His shaving kit is on the side of the counter. I look through his grooming tools, his electric razor. When I lift out his plastic soap holder, something inside makes a soft rattling sound. I fumble with the lid, my hands heavy as though they’re frozen. Finally I get it off.
I’m staring at a handful of white pills. I’ve seen these before. Ambien. The same pills someone gave Angus. I look down beside me where Angus is sitting. His tail thumps
I’m remembering how Marcus drove me home that time when my tire suddenly went flat, how he stood nearby when I turned off my alarm. I blamed Andrew for everything, for hurting Greg, for sneaking around in my house. Was it really Marcus? He said his ex-wife’s name was Kathryn. There never was a daughter. There never was a Katie.